


Returns

by archelonisychros



Series: Free Orcs AU [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aces/Aros Represent, Agriculture, Alarmingly Wholesome Overall, Body Modification, Free Orcs, Gen, HopePunk, Linguistic Fuckery, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character(s), Nonmonogamy, Other, Personal Growth, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism and Racial Justice, Youth and Aging, lots of talking, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-08-19 02:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16525664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archelonisychros/pseuds/archelonisychros
Summary: Life moves on, but some things stay the same.Azog has made good on his claims, but the struggles of a nation don't end with its independence. After the fell winter in Gundabad, he calls on an old friend to make sure there won't be another.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Diplomatic Relations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155299) by [Thorinsmut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut). 



> Once again, this series is inspired by (and set in) Thorinsmut's Free Orcs AU and all credit for the development of this universe goes to them. 
> 
> The Black Speech is indicated in italics.
> 
> I basically rage-wrote this because there just is not enough good content in the Azog fandom. (Some of what exists is FANTASTIC--there just isn't enough of it. XD) As such it caters to my personal interests/kinks a bit; sorry if you're not into hair, blood, homesteading, feels, medical/anatomical studies, or weird sweaty queer sex. Hopefully at least the character development will provide you with some enjoyment.

It was a glorious spring afternoon when the messengers appeared at Fuorn’s door.

The air smelled sweet, and the first hints of green were luxuriating in the patches of sun that perforated the forest canopy, a sun that climbed higher in the sky every noon and reached further into the cracks and crevices of the land. The first wave of migrating birds sang delicate, complex songs in the brush. Even Tulkas, the human’s canine companion, seemed to have some extra bounce in his step today, despite his years; the dog’s muzzle was long gone gray, but that didn’t stop him from shoving it into every bit of brush available as he darted about the perimeter, absorbing the scents of a world returning to life as if it were his first spring and not his thirteenth.

The nearly-subsonic booming and groaning of ice-out on the Anduin River echoed up the wide valley and between the trunks of the still-skeletal trees.

Fuorn _felt_ this noise almost more than heard it, the change in seasons vibrating in their skull, and smiled. The garlic, planted last fall, was sending up its first slender stems, and as the human gently cleared debris from the base of the new shoots, the familiar pungent smell greeted them like an old friend. It might well frost once or twice more, but such hardy vegetables would care little.

They sat back on their haunches and rolled their bare shoulders, savoring the aftereffects of an afternoon spent working earth after a winter passed mostly indoors. The early, cold-resistant crops were all planted, the last of the winter’s hunt was dried or salted or resting on ice in an old Dwarven tunnel nearby, and Fuorn was fully prepared to spend the remainder of the day doing nothing of note. A bath in the hot springs, perhaps, to ease the stiffness of muscles much unused during the dark months….a bottle of last summer’s darkest beer, to toast the setting of a reborn sun…maybe even some of that carefully hoarded Hobbiton pipeweed, purchased last fall in Lothlórien. 

A celebration was in order this day; the return of life to the land was an occasion for great joy to one who lived almost solely off its benevolence. And so, it was in the spirit of this joy and generosity that Fuorn greeted the two Orcs that appeared at their gate.

One was short and slender, with mottled green skin and a crest of coarse reddish hair. The other was nearly Fuorn’s height, coal-dark and entirely bald. Both were well-kitted, clothed in wool and leather and canvas, and the larger carried a sword as well as a formidable-looking longbow. Both also appeared underfed; the _nakhzej’s_ eye roamed over cheekbones, clavicles and ribs that threw shadows in the slanting light.

Rising, Fuorn dusted the worst of the dirt from their hands and approached the pair.

_“Greetings to you, Free Orcs, and I bid you welcome. I am Fuorn Blackwater; what can I do for you this fine day?”_

 The smaller of the two hunched his shoulders, gaze still trained respectfully on the ground, and spoke in lightly accented Westron. “I am Daul, and this is Gothmóri. We come on behalf of Gundabad, at the bequest of General Azog the White. The Free Orcs have need of knowledge he believes you may provide.”

The emissaries might have been bemused, but were polite enough to remain silent as Fuorn threw their head back and laughed delightedly.

Azog! Certainly alive and well, and apparently having distinguished himself in the decade's worth of winters since they’d seen him last. Fuorn wasn’t entirely surprised (rumors did travel, and there were plenty concerning the rise of the Free Orcs), but regular travelers were few between the nearest village and Gundabad, and anyway the enormous white Orc couldn’t read or write, last they knew. No words had been exchanged between them since that fall morning, eleven long years ago.

And now, here, on a day in which all things seemed made anew, a very old acquaintance was being renewed also, with the first concrete word of Azog’s continued existence delivered directly to their own doorstep. Fuorn couldn’t _help_ but laugh.

By the time they cut themselves off, Daul and Gothmóri were both shuffling awkwardly. The _nakhzej_ attempted to sober, long enough to reassure them.

 _“Forgive me. It is such a beautiful day, and to hear that Azog is well….I am a bit overcome. Please, enter.”_ Fuorn pulled the gate open and gestured broadly across the small yard toward the cabin that hunched against the mountainside, windows thrown wide to the gentle air. _“Let us eat and drink and discuss what I can do for you, friends.”_

As it turned out, the eating and the drinking did indeed have to come first. Gothmóri and Daul were unfailingly polite, but the intense focus the two displayed at the prospect of salted venison and the last of winter’s potatoes was entirely disproportionate to the quality of the food. Fuorn sympathized, and only more so after their guests had emptied their plates and explained further the nature of their business, so far from home.

 _“With the help of Erebor, our children are still well-fed, and the rest of us surviving, if hungry. King Thorin was no less than perfectly generous, and we will survive this season. But the pride of Gundabad is hurting. The Elders have prioritized our ability to feed ourselves. Any mountain stronghold is only as strong as its citizens, who must eat."_  The younger diplomat had returned to Black Speech once it was apparent Fuorn spoke the Orcish tongue, although his Westron seemed excellent; they suspected it was for the benefit of his companion, who might not also be bilingual. 

Fuorn nodded, polishing off their own dinner, and murmured agreement.

Daul continued. _“The lands surrounding us are thin, and harsh. The soil is not rich. The summers are short. We have been growing what we could, from seed traded and scavenged, and hunting game to supplement our rations. But the herds grow thin, and we would not hunt to extinction. We must produce more food for ourselves…and the General believes you are knowledgeable about cultivation of the land.”_

 _“I never imagined Gundabad would have need of_ farmers,” the human replied, frowning.

 _“Not of farmers. The backs of the Free Orcs are strong, and willing,”_ Gothmóri challenged, and Fuorn bowed their head at the correction. The larger orc was present as bodyguard to the smaller, but seemed equally willing to defend the reputation of her nation.

A hashing of heavily keloided whip-scars across her broad back proclaimed the soldier a first-generation Free Orc, personally escaped or liberated from the hordes of the Dark Lands. Her proud, arched nose had clearly been broken at least once; one of her deep-set eyes was so dark a brown as to appear black, while the other was a milky gray-white. Fuorn guessed it must be sightless, or nearly so, by the extent to which Gothmóri turned her head to take in her surroundings.

It still tracked correctly in its socket, though, and that bicolored gaze pierced the human as they sought to avoid offense. The bodyguard might be prickly, but Fuorn suspected she had good reason to be. For thousands of years Orcs had been spoken of as unintelligent, selfish, cruel, lazy—and now the citizens of Gundabad struggled uphill against that narrative, meeting it wherever they turned outside the safety of their mountain.

 _“I did not mean to imply that your people are averse to hard work, Gothm_ _óri. My apologies. Rather, I am surprised and humbled that my particular set of skills could be of use to them.”_

The warrior nodded deeply in return, and her face relaxed, the lines around her mouth and eyes smoothing as she accepted the apology.

 _“We do not lack for willing hands,”_ Daul agreed with his companion. _“But we do lack knowledge. Our ancestors did not work the earth, as the ancestors of Men have. We are a young race, created for war; we did not evolve with the land. Little grows in Mordor. We do not have a land-lore; our Elders are wise but cannot teach us what they never knew.”_

 _“What--”_ Fuorn, wide-eyed, realized what they were about to ask and clamped their mouth shut.

 _“What what?”_ Gothmóri challenged.

The _nakhzej_ blew out a breath. _“What…._ did _your ancestors eat, then? How did they survive? Can your bodies_ digest _plants? I remember Azog ate vegetables, but…...”_

 _“We ate whatever we COULD,”_ the soldier roared, slamming her palms on the table. The dishes jumped, and Fuorn did their best to cringe, folding inwards, signaling deference with their body while remaining silent.

 _“We ate the meat of the twisted beasts that live in the Dark Lands. We ate what weeds could grow. We ate dirt, leather, sucked on rocks….we_ ate our dead. _Yes. Those tales are true. Are you to judge us for that?”_ Gothmóri snarled, but made no move to stand, clearly an exercise of iron discipline as the cords stood out in her neck.

Fuorn breathed, and the moment stretched. They knew the tales were true; under Dol Guldur they had heard the dying offer their flesh to their surviving fellows. In a world where hunger lasted a lifetime, where in the shadow of cruelty and hard labor there was _never enough,_ it was a gift that nonetheless sat heavy in the gut. They knew. Orcs and Men alike had offered, there, in the pits and the forges and the barren caverns of the slaves, their meagre selves. Offered their bodies, that the living might go on; a crimson or ichor gift. A final kindness, a tradition begun in Mordor that echoed through every outpost of evil.

They shuddered, swallowed bile, and finally looked back at the furious bodyguard.

 _“Red flesh and black taste much the same,”_ Fuorn whispered. They cleared their throat. _“I learned that under Dol Guldur. I am no-one to judge.”_

Daul’s eyes widened, but the older Orc just nodded again. Her face was still severe, but her gravelly voice was softer in reply.

 _“Then you know why we must do better,_ Blackwater _.  Will you help the Free Orcs?”_

_“In the sight of Aghorr, I swear it.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character building, blah blah blah

After Fuorn agreed to accompany the pair back to Gundabad, tensions in the room lightened somewhat. Daul, born free in the north, had seemed somewhat shaken by the admissions of endocannibalism from his bodyguard and host, and gladly redirected the conversation.

The human was somewhat disturbed too, in truth. Nearly twenty winters had passed since they scrambled, bloodied and blinded by daylight, from the slave-pits of Dol Guldur.  Seasons had blunted the edge of those memories, taken the sting from them. Fuorn no longer lived under those shadows, or woke screaming in the night, the way they had so often in the early years.

But it was still hard to talk about, even to someone who understood the way Gothmóri clearly did. As the _nakhzej_ retreated to the root cellar, they grounded themselves carefully in the present. The place—their home—the creak of the front door, familiar as breathing, twelve paces in the cool evening air, lift the hatch just _so_ to combat the slight warping of the frame….six rungs down the ladder and a slightly longer step to the packed-dirt floor. The faint musty smell of earth, of phosphor as they struck a match to light a stubby candle.

As if sensing their inner turmoil, Tulkas had trailed them closely to the cellar door and waited there, silent save for the _whump whump_ of his tail against the ground.

As Fuorn gathered up an armful of bottles and climbed back into the night, they reclaimed their earlier sense of joy. It was spring, Azog was alive, and they would see him again. And for now, there were guests, who deserved welcome and perhaps would share in that joy. They scratched Tulkas’ thick ruff reassuringly, and the dog trotted back inside after them, appeased.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Daul laid out logistics as Fuorn puttered about the cabin, rearranging bedding, cleaning dishes, and stoking the hearth-fire.

Fuorn was being asked to stay the full growing-season in Gundabad, through the end of harvest, to advise and assist those in charge of the fields and gardens. In return, the Free Orcs would send them home with whatever provisions they needed for winter, and some small profit (in Fuorn’s preferred form), to compensate the loss of a whole summer’s crops and barter. The human considered it a satisfactory deal, and surprisingly felt a twinge of excitement at the prospect of a journey. It had been a long time since they’d travelled farther than Lothlórien, a day’s ride away, and indeed they’d never been so far north as the Free Orcs’ mountain city. Not since...well, not since they were Fuorenndi. 

And that had been a very long time ago.

Gothmóri seemed content to warm herself beside the fire in silence while Daul enumerated the practicalities of their trip, but even he paused when Fuorn plonked a bottle of dark ale on the tabletop before him.

 _“—of course, it’s still nearly winter up there, so you’ll want to bring cold-weather gear with you, and I hope you have suitable----_ oh.” The young Orc’s nostrils flared over the foaming crown of the beer, and he squinted at it. _“Smells….interesting. What…”_

A sip, and Daul’s face went from dubious to appraising to approving as he tasted and swallowed. _“It’s not sweet, like our bulmos akrum, but rich like that. This is the ale of Men?”_

 _“The ale of this ‘Man’, anyway,”_ Fuorn grinned, prizing open another and offering it to Gothmóri, who accepted and pulled a long draught from the neck before blinking and looking back at them.

Was that a shadow of a smile? The human hoped so as they settled cross-legged onto the braided wool rug beside her with their own bottle, careful to sit on the side of the grizzled Orc’s good eye.

 _“Well, it’s much better than the piss they serve in Dale these days. Dear Daul, this is your first taste of the fabled_ ‘beer’, _is it not?”_ she inquired, and yes, that _was_ a smile.

 _“Yes, Aunt,”_ Daul grumped, but brightened after raising the bottle to his lips again. _“This is_ good. _Perhaps Fuorn can teach us how to make this also, at home; we could---”_

 _“I shall not be carrying him to his bedroll,”_ Gothmóri murmured to Fuorn, but there was warmth in her countenance as her nephew expounded on the ways a _bulmos akrum_ brewing vat could be adapted for producing ale.

 _“It’s only fair I should do it,”_ Fuorn muttered back, equally amazed by Daul’s verbosity and enchanted by his conviction. They’d never met an Orc so talkative, or so…enthusiastic. As if being born _free,_ and growing up without the overbearing hand of privation, had allowed him to behave the way a human teenager might.

A teenager? _“How old is Daul?”_ Fuorn asked softly, as the Orc in question inventoried aloud the merits of all beverages he’d tried, alcoholic and non-.

 _“Nineteen,”_ Gothmóri replied, with a long-suffering quirk of the eyebrows. _“The energy of youth….”_

Fuorn grinned ruefully in response, thinking of the subtle aches that had materialized these last few years, in their joints and at the sites of injuries long-healed. _“He almost makes me miss it. Almost.”_ Not all that much, really; they’d still been laboring in the mines at nineteen. Being older and stiffer and free was sweeter than being young and lithe and enslaved.

 _“You’re no one to talk, pup,”_ the Orc informed them, taking another swig of ale and sticking her legs straight out to warm her soles at the fireplace.

The _nakhzej_ was fastidiously packing their pipe with the last of the Hobbiton tobacco, but paused to look at her askance. _“Why? How old are you, Gothm_ _óri?”_

_“Tsk. Don’t your people say you should know better than to ask a lady her age?”_

_“Mm.”_ Fuorn inclined their head apologetically, but the soldier didn’t seem truly angry at their question this time. She just wiggled her stockinged toes thoughtfully and absently rubbed Tulkas’ head, which he’d rested on her thigh.

That the enormous dog seemed to like her, even after her earlier fury at Fuorn’s poorly judged words, was clearly a testament to Gothmóri’s fundamental good character. Tulkas’ estimation of people was seldom wrong.

 _“Ninety. Give or take a few years,”_ she announced. Fuorn had ceased to expect an answer, and glanced at her wide-eyed over the pipe in their mouth and the bit of kindling they were using to light it. _“Keeping a calendar is….challenging in Mordor.”_

Fuorn understood _that,_ thinking of their own years under Dol Guldur. The seasons didn’t change underground, and anyway who had the materials or presence of mind to mark off days, months, years, when hunger and thirst and exhaustion and fear of punishment were always the foremost of one’s concerns?

Still….ninety. The human consciously smoothed the surprise from their face and puffed experimentally on the pipe. Its contents flared and dimmed, and Fuorn hummed appreciatively before exhaling. As the sweet, mellow smoke wound upward and joined the column rising from the hearth, drawn by the chimney’s updraft, they marveled.

 _Ninety._ Gothmóri was certainly weathered, her face lined and the hardships of her existence writ large on her flesh—but she moved smoothly and despite the current lack of body fat, her hands and arms lacked the knotted, veiny appearance of the elderly. The Orc was merely an adult in her prime, and Fuorn tried not to goggle at the ramifications as they took another drag.

 _“My people also have a saying,”_ they finally responded mildly, _“that goes, ‘beware an old Man in a young Man’s profession.”_

Gothmóri guffawed, clearly getting the gist, and took the pipe Fuorn offered with a glint of pride in her good eye.

 _“Auntie is the best warrior in Gundabad,”_ Daul supplied, polishing off his drink and clapping the bottle down onto the tabletop. _“She’s never lost a fight since leaving the Dark Lands. She organized the Guard at the very beginning, and led all the raids until the General was appointed. She trained them all. All the soldiers, and the Royal Guard, and anyone else who wanted to learn. And now the General’s son, and—”_

Fuorn lost track of the rest of the young Orc’s sentence.

 _“Azog has a_ son _?”_

Daul cut himself off at the tone of their voice, and nodded hurriedly. _“Bolg. He’s still only a child, but Auntie says he shows great talent too.”_

The _nakhzej_ might have only imagined the look Gothmóri tossed their way before she concurred with her nephew.

_“Bolg has a great deal left to learn, but he shows promise.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, we're almost done with the OCs and will get back to Azog next chapter. Promise.

Thankfully, neither Fuorn nor Gothmóri had to carry Daul to his bedroll in the end.

He did stay awake long enough to down another beer, though, and in the process regaled Fuorn with the exploits of his veteran aunt. First as a lone escapee of Mordor, wandering Dagorlad, and then as Captain of the Guard for the fledgling nation of Gundabad,  Gothmóri had distinguished herself on the battlefield and off it.

Having overcome seemingly impossible odds to reach the Free Orcs’ mountain, she’d made her name leading countless raids against the still-enslaved hordes of the Dark Lord, fighting and politicking with equal alacrity as the circumstances allowed; even the warrior herself shrugged in agreement when Daul said she’d led ten Orcs to Gundabad for every one she’d slain in the intervening years.

Gothmóri had finally resigned her post as Captain of the Guard and de-facto leader of Gundabad’s armed forces six years ago, citing her lost eye as a hindrance. _(“Couldn’t expect someone else to watch my blind side,”_ she muttered.) Since then, she’d spent her waking hours serving as advisor to her successor, Azog, and as a formidable trainer to new recruits, leaving the mountain occasionally as well to guard trade caravans and messengers. _(“I still get the itch to see more.”)_

Fuorn didn’t doubt the facts of Daul’s retelling, but when the young Orc wobbled off to the separate bedroom to take his rest, heady with ale, Gothmóri nonetheless downplayed her role in his eloquent (if overly wordy) retellings. It didn’t seem she was excessively humble, though, the human thought.

No, the soldier knew her own worth, and recognized her own excellence. But her pride was not only in herself—it encompassed the whole nation of the Free Orcs, without whom she could never have done all she’d done. Gothmóri reckoned every fellow citizen, every merchant and Elder and council member, every craftsman and trainee and penniless new arrival to Gundabad, as a contributor to her victories. In her own eyes, the scarred veteran was only the point of the spear….a spear held by all her people.

Tulkas _was_ right to approve, Fuorn thought, as the fire burned low.

The lateness of the hour, and the warmth of the human’s own brew in their gut, saw them apologizing a second time for their earlier missteps.

 _“Gothm_ _óri, I am sorry for my words earlier. I did not do justice to the determination of your people, or the hardships of their past. I do not wish to disrespect the Uruk. Thank you for expressing to me your disapproval.”_

They had a lot to work on, Fuorn thought. Azog himself had been less touchy concerning the Free Races’ perceptions of his people…but he’d also been gravely injured, deep in mourning, and felt indebted to them. If the human was to journey to Gundabad, and prove a worthy ally, they would have to do better, and speak accordingly.

For her part, the older Orc just snorted.

 _“Keep in mind that nearly anything you say will likely be interpreted as an insult, and you will do all right.”_ But her expression softened as she tapped the pipe with one clawed finger and took another drag of finest Hobbiton tobacco. _“I think, though…”_

Gothmóri handed the pipe back to Fuorn, took another swig of ale, and considered.

_“I think that you and I, at least, may yet be friends.”_

The human savored one last mouthful of sweet smoke, and found such a prospect entirely welcome.

_“Thank you.”_

Perhaps the Orc was also feeling the effects of the human alcohol, though; she settled back on her elbows on the rug and frankly studied Fuorn’s face for a moment, the first time she’d done so. Prolonged eye contact among the Uruk was reserved for situations of intense intimacy or seriousness, or else extreme prejudice in the form of violence—and Fuorn was _reasonably_ certain it wasn’t the latter.

They did their best to maintain gravitas, and returned the gaze evenly, feeling small and fragile under that piercing, mismatched gaze in a way they’d never quite felt before. Not in front of Azog, whose mere presence spoke to power…or even in front of the slavedrivers under Dol Guldur, who held their life in bloodied hands.

 _“He speaks only well of you,_ tark,” Gothmóri declared.

_“Az—the General?”_

_“Yes.”_ She polished off her ale, and the soldier’s glittering eye rolled up in enjoyment before returning to Fuorn’s face. _“You saved his life.”_

 _“Perhaps I did,”_ they agreed, raising their own bottle in a silent toast before draining it, and reaching across the rug to stroke Tulkas’ head gently where it lay on her lap. The dog chuffed, but did not open his eyes.

 _“I met Azog on the road, after he left Mordor. I brought him to Gundabad myself. I taught him….I sponsored him. I sent him on the raid that cost him his arm.”_ The Orc pressed her lips together.

 _“He is dear to you,”_ Fuorn observed.

_“He is.”_

_“I am….I was more than pleased to hear that he still lives, and that he has earned distinction. I am excited to speak with him, and hear what has happened since I knew him.”_

_“And….?”_ Gothmóri seemed to sense their hesitancy.

The human blew out a breath. _“And he has a son, now….”_

 _“You were…intimate with him,”_ the Orc stated flatly, but there was no rebuke in her face.

Fuorn only nodded in return. That episode was long past and certainly all involved had been consenting. So why did they feel embarrassed?

Human sexual mores, they supposed. However vigorously Fuorn had already flaunted those, they grimaced and wished they could ban the blush that was doubtless spreading across their winter-pale countenance.

_“Aye. Not that I have any such expectations now. I simply remember it fondly. If he has a family now, well….”_

_“It is wise to have no expectations,_ tark. _Those will nearly always prove painful.”_ The Orc crossed and uncrossed her legs lazily, turning her gaze back on the dying fire, but there was compassion borne of experience in her voice.

 _“It does not matter whether he wishes to be with me in that way again,”_ Fuorn asserted, as much for their own benefit as Gothmóri’s. _“I will come to Gundabad, and do my best for the Free Orcs, regardless.”_

_“I believe that you will honor our bargain….but I do not believe that it doesn’t matter to you.”_

The human shrugged and the corner of their mouth crimped in a wry grin. _“I tore my own family apart. I will not do the same to another.”_

Gothmóri let that pass unremarked, for which the human was grateful. Perhaps the ale had loosened their tongue, but the past had already made itself known tonight. No need to resurrect it again.

_“Be that as it may, you ought speak to Oghor before you draw any conclusion on the matter of your feelings for Azog himself.”_

Upon seeing their confusion, she clarified. _“His mate. Bolg’s mother.”_

The _nakhzej’s_ teeth clacked together as they closed their mouth abruptly.

Azog’s mate…what would she be like?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it's not too sacrilegious to try and flesh out the idea of Bolg's mother.   
> I know it hasn't been done often in fanfic and maybe it's a terrible idea, but i am genuinely interested in the idea of an Orc that could be so fascinating and important to Azog. Take it or leave it, I guess. 
> 
> Also Oghor is absolutely Autistic, and Bolg is as well, although to a lesser extent. Both deal with sensory overload issues and have interests that consume them to the point of total immersion and "info-dumping", as well as difficulty interpreting implicit and non-verbal communication.

Happily, the conversation thereafter turned to the exploits of Azog himself as a youngling, and Fuorn could not help but chuckle as Gothmóri evoked a side of him,they’d not known before.

True, the erstwhile General had only stayed in this house for three days, eleven winters ago—and he’d only been _awake_ for one of them, near-comatose the rest of the time from blood loss. Fuorn was under no illusion that they’d gotten to know the entirety of the enormous white Orc’s personality in so short a time.

And yet, as Gothmóri reclined on the hearth-rug and spoke fondly of her protegee, the human couldn’t help but marvel at the way each story aligned _exactly_ with Azog as they’d understood him.

Proud to a fault, but not without sense. Courageous, but not heedless. Direct, but not without tact. Stoic…but not without feeling.

Such genuinity. The human couldn’t help but smile at the thought they’d done right. _Been_ right, to drag a bloody, bewildered stranger into their home, all those years ago. Even if they’d wondered at their own common sense while they did so….

That bloody, bewildered stranger was changing Arda. And Fuorn was going to help him do it, come Hillmen or high water.

 

 

Gothmóri did have some sense Azog hadn’t, Fuorn mused, in that she’d accepted the offer of the human’s bed graciously and readily. When their talk had finally dwinded away, she’d yawned cavernously, excused herself outside to the privy and then shuffled into the bedroom with a mock salute.

The _nakhzej_ would happily let her share that space with the rumbling snores of her nephew, they thought, stripping to their breeches and curling up in their nest of blankets on the floor beside Tulkas. Who, truth be told, had also developed an impressive snore in his maturity….but at least it was familiar.

Fuorn spent a few minutes gazing into the embers and wondering idly what Azog might be doing at the moment, before closing their eyes and drifting off to sleep.

 

Azog hadn’t had the time to wonder idly about much of anything, lately.

Between his attempts to keep the Guard’s new crop of recruits from killing themselves (or, inadvertently, each other)…..the hours spent in council with the elders, juggling the needs of a hungry nation…the joyful but exhausting job of parenting an eight-year-old Orcling with more questions than he had answers for….the new batch of Warg pups, the consolidation of a first payment in trade for Erebor’s _(Thorin’s)_ delivery of much-needed supplies, and his own lessons in reading and writing….

Well, he was not having trouble falling asleep at night.

Nor was his mate, these days. In addition to her own half of Bolg’s parenting, Oghor was busy sun-up to sun-down --with the excavation of a new level to house Gundabad’s still-growing population, with her hours in the kitchens, and with the recently-undertaken attempts to inventory Gundabad’s agricultural holdings. She returned to their quarters every evening coated to the elbows in stone dust or flour or chaff, and would spend several silent minutes washing up and taking in the view from their window before speaking to him and Bolg.

That was Oghor. She needed time to breathe, to switch gears, to reel in all the threads of her day and consolidate them before she could lay them aside and simply….be.

She’d been good for him in that regard. A younger Azog would still be pacing and planning despite the late hour, but he’d learned a thing or two from his companion about diminishing returns.

You had to have some rest, if you wanted to accomplish anything. Otherwise you just…ran dry.

So he took a breath and another sip of _bulmos akrum_ and smiled at his mate, who sat beside him on the pile of furs, feet tucked up under her. When she glanced up from her whittling, Oghor smiled back.

_“What,_ _Ázi?”_

He made a thoughtful noise. _“Thinking that you’ve taught me a great deal.”_

_“About how to keep a proper grip?”_

She was teasing, and Azog chuckled too at the memory; not long after they’d begun courting she’d disarmed him spectacularly in front of half the Guard during a sparring match….simply by _pulling_ at his axe, rather than pushing back, when they crossed weapons.

 It had been a potent reminder for him that brute strength, while tremendously useful, was not the solution to every problem.

Actually, Azog reckoned that bit of wisdom was _also_ applicable both on and off the battlefield.

**_“_** _Well, that too,”_ he conceded, and although no more was said he could feel gratitude and pride radiating off her just as warmth radiated from the fireplace before them.

 

When they went to bed it was with relief.

Bolg was already asleep, in his own room. The Orcling had worn himself out today, it seemed, with the trip to the surface.

The Free Orcs tended to co-parent beyond their immediate partners; youngsters were raised not only by their own families but by their parents’ extended families, friends, and friends of friends, typically within groups of children that ranged in age. The exposure to a variety of adults and to other Orclings of varying ages provided a child with opportunities to nurture and be nurtured; to learn from a variety of adults with a variety of skills and strengths, and to develop for themselves whatever interests or proclivities they chose.

_Choice_ was indeed a major theme in the rearing of the next generation, for most of the citizens of Gundabad had spent at least part of their lives feeling utterly without it.

Neither Azog nor Oghor could entirely understand all of Bolg’s choices. Their son’s decision to paint himself with bright pigments before leaving his room every morning, his fascination with the murals that adorned the city’s walls, and the heavy tomes he toted home from the slowly growing library of Gundabad…books on architecture, art, and social customs of varying races, were all slightly foreign to his parents. The boy’s fascinations consumed him entirely at times, to the extent that his parents would have to tear him away from them to feed and bathe him, and then listen to him chatter about them even as they did so.

But neither would dream of denying their son his interests. He was all they’d never been…and they wanted him to have all the chances they’d never had.

So when Bolg wasn’t with his parents (or running wild with a cohort of other children under the watchful eye of a fellow parent) he was apprenticing to Gujaal the jewelrymaker, or Înirath the painter, or engaging all he met in the library with question after question about life outside the mountain.

Or, as today would have it, gathering flowers and shiny pebbles under the spring sun while Oghor’s brother Oghíl watched on.

The fresh air had certainly done the youngster some good; Bolg was breathing deeply and regularly when his father peeked in on him. A small, pale hand clutched at the blankets, and Azog felt his heart expand at the sight.

_“Sleeping hard,”_ he reported to his mate after closing the bedroom door softly.

She smiled in acknowledgement and took his hand, leading him to their own sleeping quarters. As soon as the door closed behind them, she was stripping off her boots, her furs, her tunic and breeches. The only light was that of the crescent moon, but despite the dimness Oghor’s aim was perfect—her wadded underthings hit the wicker basket in the corner with a thump.

Azog followed suit, and the two of them collapsed into bed almost simultaneously.

_“Another day….”_ she murmured and cupped his cheek in her hand. It was thickly calloused and rough, wonderful in its strength and steadiness.  

Azog’s good hand was worn also, he knew, in the “swordsman’s ring” that encompassed his thumb and first finger. As he unscrewed his left, clawed hand from his iron forearm, he noted again the callouses on the flesh-and-blood right that announced him as a warrior who’d spent hours…years…wielding a weapon. He’d earned them in the training halls, on countless patrols and raids. But even such did not compare to the hand of a stoneworker.

_All_ of Oghor’s fingers, and her palms, and even the heels of her hands were thickened and tough from wielding a hammer and chisel, from the constant wear and tear of the mountain’s roots. Her claws were ground down past the tips of her fingers, looking more like the flat, harmless nails of a Man or Elf than the talons most Orcs bore proudly.

But the play of tendons in her wrists, and the thick ropes of muscle that shifted in her forearms and shoulders as she caressed his face…well…

Azog felt sorry even for the arrogant Dwarf that might test her grip in greeting.

Doubtless their knuckles would regret it.

He grinned as he dropped the prosthetic hand to the floor on his side of the mattress, propped himself on the stump that was left, and reached to thread his intact fingers through his mate’s thick crest of hair.

_“Another day,”_ he agreed, and scratched at her scalp gently.

Oghor hummed in pleasure and scooted closer, pressing her chest and belly against his and throwing her leg over his hip. Her arm curled over his waist and as she pulled him against her, his mate also began to knead at the tightness in his lower back.

It was Azog’s turn to groan in appreciation, and he submitted to powerful fingers that prodded and stroked and soothed on either side of his spine and over his sacrum. Still, he was surprised when she chortled and rolled her hips against his lasciviously.

Until he realized that he was, in fact, tremendously hard. And that the head of his cock had been making itself known, pressing into the cleft between her legs as it grew.

A cleft which was certainly wet and welcoming. The Orc grinned.

They still had sex when they could, but it was nowhere near as often as it had been before Bolg and before the Fell Winter and the growing demands on their time and abilities.

Constant hunger and exhaustion did have a way of dampening physical desire, even if Azog was every bit as in love with his partner as he’d ever been.

Indeed, those things hadn’t gone away. But right here, right now, well….

_“Shall I fuck you, or shall you fuck me?”_ Oghor enquired, with a glance toward the bedside table where, in a drawer, Azog knew a bottle of oil and her own cock (made of polished stone) resided.

He’d been surprised to find enjoyment in being penetrated himself. It had never been something that piqued Azog’s interest until he’d found a mate that was both capable and devious enough to place him in situations where it seemed appealing.

And had, of course, proved worthy enough of his trust to allow such things.

But tonight, he didn’t feel up to the task of preparing himself properly, or possessed of the patience it would require. So he rolled his hips in return, feeling himself slide against that slick warmth, and kissed Oghor gently, sucking at that precise spot below her ear.

_“I’ll fuck you, if I may.”_

She shuddered and nodded, her cheek brushing his, and reached down to reposition him.

When Azog pressed forward, sheathing himself in her warmth, it felt like coming home.


	5. Chapter 5

Leaving a homestead, of course, was not a simple affair.

It took Fuorn a week to arrange for departure. Trading away last year’s calf, a dozen chickens, a goat, and all their perishable goods (plus calling in a few favors), finally secured temporary homes for all the human’s remaining livestock. The gardens and the field would have to lie fallow, save for the early vegetables already planted, whose bounty was promised to the neighbors that had agreed to keep an occasional eye on the property.

Cupboards were cleared, windows were shuttered, and the hearth swept. Daul and Gothóri pitched in gladly enough to tidy and secure the small holding, while Fuorn settled affairs in town and oversaw the purchase of supplies for their return journey to Gundabad.

The appetites of both had been incredible, too—and though it was still the leanest time of year at this latitude, Fuorn fancied that the Orcs had put on at least a few needed pounds by the time they set to packing. Both had been living mostly on meat and boiled grains for the last half a year, and not enough of either.

And, as it happened, they _did_ indeed eat vegetables.

 _“I don’t even like them that much,”_ Daul admitted as he plucked a few more delicate sprigs of chickweed and added them to his basket. _“But lately my body seems to cry for them, as if I_ have t _o have them.”_

 _“You do,”_ Fuorn informed him, grubbing in the forest loam a few feet away.

Far northern tribes of Men made sure to eat the organs of their game, as well as the meat, to obtain needed nutrients. The _nakhzej w_ as certain the Free Orcs also did so, but with so little to go around…well, their guests were not only gaining weight but their eyes, skin, and (in Daul’s case) hair was beginning to appear a bit healthier, too. The need not just for calories, but for a variety of those nutrients, was something Fuorn intended to address as well in their time with the citizens of Gundabad.

 _“Hah,”_ they grunted, and straightened up to lob a few bittercress shoots into Daul’s basket. Truthfully, the pungent smell of spring’s first wild greens was making their mouth water as well. The body knew what it needed, indeed.

Satisfied with their haul, Orc and human meandered back to the forest path and homeward. Doubtless Gothmóri (with Tulkas at her hip, as he’d recently become attached) would be waiting for them with the rest of the day’s work squared away.

 

She was. The weathered soldier was an icon of relaxation as Daul and Fuorn approached the gate.

Gothmóri had settled herself on the front step, topless and bootless in the slanting light of late afternoon. She’d volunteered to spend the day repairing a leaky section of the cabin roof, and sweat was still drying on her face and chest from the effort. Condensation glinted on the jug of cold well-water beside her; her hands and breeches were grubby and splashed with pitch, and her eyes were half-closed against the golden, westerly glare.

And Tulkas, of course, was napping beside her on the sun-warmed planks.  In fact, it was the _thump_ of his tail at the approach of his master that seemed to snap her from her reverie, and the Orc raised a hand to hail them.

 _“How did it go today,_ tark _?”_

_“Better than I had hoped. We will be well-provisioned when we set out tomorrow.”_

Between the modest amount of coin Daul and Gothmóri had brought with them, Fuorn’s own small savings, and much polite but intent bargaining, the human had been able to purchase what supplies the trio would need that they hadn’t been able to provide themselves.

It paid to be both selective and scrupulous, when you had to carry almost everything you needed with you for the better part of a month.

 _“And I fixed the fence, and found these!”_ Daul held up his basket of shoots and leaves and delicate, tiny blossoms, and grinned.

Gothmóri positively groaned at the sight. _“Yes please. But first….”_ She gestured to herself, and then glanced at Fuorn.

 _“A wash-up?”_ The human finished, nodded, and felt the road-grit under their own fingertips as they scratched at the nape of their neck. There would be plenty of that in the coming days. _“Let us take advantage of the baths one more time before we depart.”_

The impromptu salad was left under the watchful eye of Tulkas, who had little interest in either baths or vegetables; he settled back into his nap as Fuorn, Gothmóri, and Daul armed themselves with soap and cloths and undertook the steep, narrow Dwarven stairs that snaked up the mountainside.

At the top of those steps, a wide, flat flagstone court stretched across the face of the rock, rimmed by an intricately hewn balustrade. A series of meticulously smoothed stone basins captured steaming water where it emerged from the mountain itself, and funneled it along until it dropped away over the edge, to form a slowly cooling tributary to the mighty Anduin below.

The first time Fuorn had brought their guests up here, they’d watched Gothmóri carefully, remembering Azog’s initial reaction to the faint scent of sulfur that emerged along with the steam. But aside from a sudden flaring of the nostrils and a slow exhale, the grizzled Orcess had shown no aversion to the possibility of a hot bath.

Tonight, she only disrobed with a sigh of satisfaction and slid easily into one of the basins, submerging to her chin before releasing her limbs to float lazily in the slow current. Daul followed, but Fuorn opted to forego the pleasure for a moment and gathered up Gothmóri’s discarded breeches.

Bar of soap in hand, they settled on the rim of a downstream basin, and proceeded to soak, scrub and beat the canvas garment on the stone, repeating the process several times before rinsing it, wringing it out and draping it over the balustrade to dry.

 _“This_ is _the only pair you brought with you, isn’t it?”_ they asked in response to the grizzled soldier’s raised eyebrow.

Gothmóri just stared quizzically for a moment, and finally nodded, settling back into the steaming water.

 _“She’s just worried about the smell,”_ Daul informed Fuorn as they stripped and slipped into the bath beside him.

 _“The smell? I should think those breeches will smell a great deal better now,”_ Fuorn replied. They pulled the leather thong from their braid and ducked beneath the water’s surface to comb their hair free, but as it swirled about their head they could hear the rumble of the young Orc’s voice continue.

The _nakhzej_ surfaced hurriedly and scraped their sodden locks back from their face. _“Excuse me. What?”_

_“I said…you know our sense of smell is much more acute than yours, yes?”_

_“I mean—I have heard it said—”_

_“To the extent that an artificial scent, such as can be found in your soap, is in fact…._ overwhelming _to an Orc that wishes to remain aware of their surroundings.”_ Daul was nonetheless massaging the offending soap into his thick, reddish mane as he spoke.

Fuorn blinked. _“Oh.”_

 _“A warrior’s habits die hard,”_ Gothmóri informed them with a rueful grin. _“For all I may wish to believe I am safe here, I struggle to entirely entrust myself to that belief.”_

 _“I---I apologize; I didn’t realize it was_ that _much more acute,”_ Fuorn stuttered, but the older Orc held up a hand.

 _“You didn’t know. There_ is _a reason the free races say Orcs stink. They just don’t know that we don’t wash when we don’t trust them.”_

 _“Does….does trusting them make a difference?”_ Fuorn ventured, nonplussed but hunching forward in the delicious heat.

 _“Yes,”_ Daul and Gothmóri chorused, but the young diplomat cut himself off when his aunt continued.

_“It does make a difference, because we can usually smell a lie, among other things. Unless the air is thick with artificial scents already; then, it is as if a sense is missing to us.”_

_“You can…how can you_ smell _a_ lie _?!”_ Fuorn choked, disbelieving, and this time it was Daul that answered.

_“Well, it isn’t the lie itself, it’s more that we can smell the increased arousal or anxiety that goes along with telling one.”_

The human considered, as they resolutely lathered their own hair and dipped beneath the water again to rinse it. _“Does this work with other Orcs?”_

 _“Yes,”_ the two replied together again, but again Daul deferred to Gothmóri when she explained.

_“And it has, no doubt, been both the bane and boon of our people, that we cannot easily deceive one another.”_

_“But It’s not infallible…after all, there are other reasons that someone could become….’aroused or anxious’ while speaking, aren’t there?”_

_“Again, yes. And so it is not foolproof. We may not be able to tell whether someone is lying or simply distraught, by smell.”_ The soldier did indeed seem disinclined to reach for the soap, but she was giving her body, and then her hands, a thorough going-over with a washcloth nonetheless.

In truth, Fuorn couldn’t fault Uruk hygiene (not since the mines, at least, where everyone stank equally of sweat and shit and fear, with no access to even a wet rag or a sliver of soap). Their own sense of smell might be laughable compared to the Orcs’, or to Tulkas’, but fallible or not, the ability to detect things unseen would only be a blessing on the journey north to Gundabad.

Gothmóri, however, was still scrubbing almost angrily at her fingers.

And so they set the bar of soap aside and leaned over the edge of the basin to rummage in the pockets of their discarded tunic.

_“Here. This will help.”_

Fuorn unfolded a waxed cheesecloth to reveal a sizeable pat of butter.

Both Orcs looked at her askance, the elder merely frowning in confusion while the younger shook the water from his shoulder-length hair and made an exaggerated dubious gesture. _“What, exactly, will this help?”_

_“With the pitch, I mean. Fats and oils free it from the skin.”_

It was with some small hesitation that the human stood and waded through the rippling waist-deep water to Gothmóri’s side. After all, the barrier of touch was a significant one, and hadn’t yet been crossed. But the grizzled veteran merely turned and lifted her hands from the water, offering them up to Fuorn’s ministrations.

They arbitrarily selected the left, and swiped a fingerful of butter, but had barely begun to massage it into her pitch-crusted palm before Daul had done likewise and taken up the right.

Once the fat was applied, the streaks of boiled pine sap gave up their hold on Gothmóri’s weathered, thick-knuckled hands easily enough as her host and nephew rubbed and scraped at her palms and fingers.

It was another point in her favor, as far as Fuorn was concerned, that she graciously accepted the help (and the pleasurable touch to her doubtlessly tired, cramped hands).

 _“Azog could learn a thing or two from you about accepting kindnesses,”_ they found themselves chortling, as they worked a last stubborn flake of pitch from the veteran Orc’s index finger.

 _“You may find he’s learned a thing or two about that since you last met,”_ Gothmóri murmured, eyes still closed as she rested her head on the edge of the bath.

 _“Well…._ good,” they announced, finally relinquishing her hand and retreating a few steps before Daul also finished his work and did likewise.

Refreshed from the day’s labors, and with stomachs still empty, the three clambered from the water. Daul and Fuorn began to dry themselves and dress, but Gothmóri’s breeches were still quite wet. The Orcess simply shrugged, slung the sodden fabric over her shoulder, and set off back down the mountainside in the nude, leaving the other two to scramble for their things as beads of moisture rolled off her broad, scarred back and down her ropy mahogany calves.

Daul called out some joke about a warrior always being prepared—to which his aunt merely gestured rudely back over her shoulder.

Fuorn, meanwhile, paused to take in the view of the valley for a long moment, idly running a hand over the familiar textures of the stone balustrade before them. The Anduin was a black, glittering snake below, running fast and wide with the spring rush of snowmelt. They could just make out a few last lumps of ice riding the current southward, and the delicate fringe of green at its banks.

Shouts of laughter from below rang among the rocks, and the human turned to follow. 

 

Fuorn only allowed themself some preemptive homesickness later, once the other two had gone to bed.

The human was as comfortable as it was possible to be, there on the floor before the hearth they’d kindled and rekindled so many nights before. Its warmth was a gentle presence on one side, while Tulkas’ shaggy bulk formed a bulwark on the other. They stroked the sleeping dog’s back slowly, thoughtfully, as the moon’s silver light crept across the room.

True, they were excited about this journey. True, they felt it was the right thing to do. And yes, they were certain that their neighbors and townsfolk would care for their animals and land and home well.

But this place…this place.

When Fuorn had arrived on this site, years ago, it had been a hollow echo of a habitation—the original Dwarven stone tumbled into disrepair, the roof long since rotted in, drifts of leaves and hardy weeds obscuring most of the remaining foundation.

They’d raised it proud again with their own hands….the work of two summers. Resetting blocks, hewing and hauling and laying timber almost entirely by trial and error, while they scraped out an existence on game and forage and slept in the shelter of a nearby tunnel’s mouth. The _nakhzej_ had sweated and bled for this place, had sweated and bled for the coin of the townsfolk as well that bought them their seed and their animals and, at long last, real glass panes for the windows.

In that time they’d found peace and a sense of purpose, as well as friends throughout the valley and a feeling of _belonging_ that they couldn’t recall having felt since they were a child. A small child. Long before the frustration and disappointment of puberty.,,,

And they were leaving it all.

Still, Fuorn realized, no amount of homesickness would ever be worse than feeling _no s_ ense of belonging. They would miss the comforts of this place they’d made their own…

But many of the Free Orcs had never had that to begin with. Were still just beginning to discover what it _was_ to have a home, somewhere you felt safe and welcome. For Fuorn to help Gundabad become that place for others?

Well, that was a reason worth leaving for.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in Gundabad.

_“Again!”_

The new recruits set to with a will, even if Azog didn’t miss the sweaty sheen on their foreheads or the slight trembling of limbs.

When, after only twenty breaths or so, the last randomly assigned match had ended, he called it.

“That’s it! For your families’ sakes, do hit the baths before you go home.”

The brevity of the last fight had more to do with exhaustion than lack of skill, he noted, fixing in his mind the names of the losers. Those who’d flagged or forfeited after six training matches would require more stamina, even if they weren’t short on technique or dedication.

After all….real enemies didn’t allow you to simply admit defeat because you were _tired._

Azog rolled his shoulders and traced a forefinger habitually over the scar tissue at the premature end of his left arm.

Nonetheless, all of this year’s trainees had done admirably. Several had successfully demonstrated techniques they’d previously struggled with, and one had visibly pushed through her own bone-deep exhaustion to overcome her final opponent.

It was with that particular recruit in mind that Azog called after his students, now retreating slowly from the arena to mount a flight of stairs to the main level.

_“Excellent job, all of you. I’m impressed. Enjoy that hot water….and I expect to see you tomorrow.”_

Readily available hot water was a recent addition to Gundabad’s facilities; the team responsible for excavating the level below had taken full advantage of their discovery by piping it directly to the baths on the communal level.

Those baths had previously only run warm for one day a week, in observance of the amount of fuel required to heat such a volume of water. It had been a luxury scarcely afforded, but integral to the wellbeing of Gundabad’s laborers (and new arrivals, who almost invariably came filthy, infested with lice and disease).

 Simultaneously, he mentally praised Gothmóri, and whatever powers had seen fit to create the Anduin Valley as an intensely geothermically active region.

His predecessor had certainly set for him a high standard. While the former Captain of the Guard had been exacting to a fault, she’d been as liberal in her praise as she had been in her criticism, and that alone had earned her the kind of following Azog was now attempting to commandeer. Never mind the actualities of her combat record; the older Orcess had kicked plenty of asses, but she’d fostered the growth and development of countless more, and in doing so earned undying loyalty.

Those were big boots to fill.

The enormous Orc felt he’d been doing a respectable job since she retired, but at least she’d usually been _around_ , before, to give advice or lend an ear.

Now….well, now it had been nearly a month since she’d stepped out the front gates of Gundabad, with her garrulous nephew in tow, to find Fuorn.

Azog sighed, racked his own (heavily weighted) practice weapons, and turned to follow his recruits upstairs.

Like a wheel, settling into a well-traveled rut, the way his mind was returning to that matter lately. True, it had been almost offhand at first, his suggestion to the council that he might know someone knowledgeable in land-lore and inclined to share it with the Free Orcs. They’d granted dispensation easily enough to send a messenger south, and if one or two of the Elders had glanced meaningfully at his prosthetic arm as they did so, he supposed they might remember after all the circumstances of his return to the city all those years ago.

Weary, weak, missing an arm, and bearing word of terrible tragedy. A raid gone wrong, Azog had been the only survivor.  He’d returned so late to Gundabad that most had given up the entire company for lost and resigned themselves to the leaden uncertainty of simply never knowing what had happened to their friends and families.

And so it had fallen to him to strip them of that uncertainty, replacing it with the more acute ache of grief.

Trudging up the stairs to the communal level, the great Orc briefly relived what had been the worst report of his life. Azog honestly didn’t remember how much he’d said to the council about the human that had saved his life and sent him home—if he’d said anything at all on the matter, while he struggled to remain calm and answer questions about _who_ and _how_ and _what happened_ that felt like accusations even when he’d known they weren’t.

But certainly at least a few of the Elders must have looked at his neatly sutured, tidily bandaged stump that day and known he’d had help…and it was the same handful of individuals that glanced at him _knowingly_ while voting ‘aye’ last fortnight.

He was glad they had.

Granted, he hadn’t known Fuorn very long…just a day, really, he mused as he emerged into the great hall and made for the baths himself. Just a day. But it would have been hard to fake the compassion the human had shown him—or the _other_ things they’d shown him.

Azog resisted the urge to glare down at his own crotch, as the memories of those other things tried to manifest beneath his leathers, and focused instead on the pleasant ache in his shoulders and flesh forearm.

Training green recruits was an excellent way to keep yourself sharp as well, if you pushed yourself the way you pushed them. The General had little patience for any leader that wouldn’t work at _least_ as hard as those they commanded, anyway.

The old master, Sauron, hadn’t, and look where that had gotten him. Abandoned by a race he’d created, left to rage and fling himself against what was good and beautiful in the world—alone.

Even a great and ancient evil could be bested when it was without help.

As Azog meandered among his people, he allowed himself a brief, satisfied, positively vicious grin. All around him, there were other Orcs—Orcs just passing through, Orcs standing in groups around glowing braziers, Orcs seated at long trestle tables, Orcs reclining comfortably before the massive hearth at the head of the Great Hall on piles of furs, or cushions, or on the floor.

Their creator had never envisioned this, and he felt his grin grow wider yet. No, the Uruk had not been created to chat idly, or to laugh openly, or to plan for the future. They had not been created to flirt, or argue, or comfort, or even to sit in contemplative silence. They had not been created to sit and listen at the feet of their elders, or to rebel against them; they had not been created to make music or art or fashion or….noodles (as one enthusiastic individual was doing when Azog passed by the kitchens).

The Orcs hadn’t been created to watch their children scamper about with indulgent smiles, or barter their services, or simply offer help freely to those in need. They weren’t intended to mediate each others’ disagreements, or to celebrate each others’ achievements, or to get sentimental when they were too far into their cups. His people’s original purpose was not to pass a handwritten note, salt-shaker, newly-repaired necklace, or softly smoldering pipe to the one beside them.

And yet, right now, within the safety of Gundabad’s forbidding bulk, the Orcs surrounding Azog were doing all these things, and more.

Yes, this _had_ to be Sauron’s worst nightmare, and Azog’s chest tightened with pride.

_“General?”_

It was a new member of the Guard—the one who’d performed so admirably this evening, in fact, by tapping into her reserves to win the last training match. It only took him a moment to dredge her name up out of his momentarily-distracted mind.

_“Yes, Aklash?”_

_“Why are you smiling so?”_ she asked earnestly--and then frowned, beginning to fidget with her gauntlets as she realized the impertinence of her question.

Once, he might have chastised himself for wearing his thoughts so openly on his face, but instead Azog simply reached out to still her worrying hands.

_“I was thinking about what a fine day it is to be free.”_

_“Oh. Yes, sir, it is indeed.”_ She slowly settled back into a resting stance and looked up at him seriously.

He fought the urge to smile again—ah, the gravitas of a youngster; he would most c _ertainly_ not be letting her see actual battle until she’d reached her majority, and she knew it. But that didn’t mean he’d push her, or praise her, any less than his older recruits. After all, the choice to sign up for the Guard had been hers. _“That was an impressive display, tonight. Your last match.”_

 _“I….was sloppy, General,”_ she confessed, her gaze somewhere over his left shoulder.

Azog chuckled. _“Yes, you were,”_ he agreed. And then, as her expression dropped, he bent to look her in the face. _“But technique comes with time, and practice. Willingness, though? The heart to push through? Those are things I cannot teach, Aklash. One either has them, or does not.”_ Her eyes widened.

He straightened and clasped her shoulder.

_“You’ve got them in spades. I’ll see you tomorrow night, soldier.”_

Aklash merely nodded to him before turning and heading on her way, but he caught the small smile on her face as she went.

Good. That Orcess would be a blessing to her people, whatever she chose to become.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The number of OCs in this fic is going to get out of control, I can tell you that already. Sorry not sorry.

Between the trunks of the budding trees rang music.

It was a folk song from the Forodwaith, the tune perhaps never heard in this wood before. Fuorn had teased it from the depths of their childhood memory to teach their Orc companions, who pitched in well enough—even if they still stumbled over the lilting, burring dialect of Westron the human had grown up speaking.

_“—yea, cover me_

_In my hour of need_

_Raging at the surface_

_But calm in the deeps_

_Let me be as you, let me be as you_

_Coldwater seaaaaaaaaa—”_

Gothmóri’s rich, gravelly baritone voice, and Fuorn’s warm tenor, dissolved abruptly into chuckles, as Daul drew out the last note in an exaggerated (but fine) falsetto.

One that incited Tulkas, ambling along at the front of their little procession, to howl along… which only intensified the laughter of his companions.

_“Have you managed to shatter any wineglasses, Daul?”_ Fuorn teased.

He smirked in reply. _“As if the Uruk would be foolish enough to make breakable drinking vessels,_ tark. _That is a distinctly human folly.”_

The _nakhzej_ conceded with a chuckle, spreading their hands wide in a “you’re-not-wrong” gesture that he could see from where he walked, a dozen steps behind them on the single-file woodland path. _“But what I mean to say is, your voice is lovely. You do the tune justice. Do you sing often at home?”_

_“Aye, some friends and I would often perform in the evenings, in the Great Hall. A wonderful place for music—the stone, you know, it makes the sound_ last, _makes it echo and echo so you can hear yourself and everyone else and makes the notes grow and live all on their own—”_

_“He really is quite good,”_ Gothmóri added, as her nephew sang the praises of Gundabad's acoustics. The veteran Orcess was bringing up the rear, as she usually did. Since they’d left the security of Fuorn’s home acres, her hand sat closer to the hilt of her sword, and her face had lost some of its openness.

But these lands were sparsely inhabited, and the path utterly without signs of recent use, so she seemed disinclined to silence Daul’s chattering, and even as her eyes (and nose) scanned constantly for threats, she joined in the ongoing exchange of songs, poems, and stories easily enough….for which Fuorn was glad; Gothmóri was more widely-travelled than either of her younger companions, and had a wealth of such to share. 

It helped to pass the time. The Orcs and their companion had been on foot for almost a week now, headed steadily north along the eastern fringe of the Anduin Valley.

The human had privately feared that Tulkas might slow their journey. The dog was, after all, well into his seniority…but Fuorn had been unwilling to leave him behind, and with daily paw care the old giant seemed to be having no trouble. In fact, the little party was making good time, twenty or so miles a day; thus far, they hadn’t encountered any other travelers, and made camp each night within a stone’s throw of the narrow, packed-earth track that wound and rose and fell with the lay of the Misty Mountains’ foothills.

It was a far cry from the broad, flat cobblestone of the Great Road, which wound along the valley floor beside the river itself, and carried the majority of the region’s traffic….which was why the little company had chosen it. Even as trade relations expanded between Gundabad and the great cities of the South, Orcs themselves were seldom seen in the region, much less in small groups like this one.

And a small group of Orcs would be a certain target for any traveler with a racial axe to grind, as Gothmóri had pointed out a week ago, spitting angrily into the dust before eyeing Fuorn.

_“You aren’t welcome in every tavern either, are you,_ tark?”

_“No,”_ they’d admitted. Tall, broad-shouldered, and flat-chested, the _nakhzej_ would pass for a man at forty paces, but not at four. It was something they’d been (unpleasantly) informed of, more than once in the past. Usually fists had been involved. And drink.

Scratching at their beardless jaw in remembered frustration, Fuorn was abruptly yanked from the grasp of _those_ memories.

_“Halt!”_ Gothmóri hissed.

Daul instantly complied, dropping into a crouch. The human did the same a split-second later, clicking their tongue to get Tulkas’ attention and commanding him to sit with a curt lift of the hand.

He did, and the silence that fell was broken only by a soft _tschingggggg_. Gothmóri’s bastard sword was all business—the hilt worn and sweat-stained, unadorned but meticulously maintained, and it caught the mellow spring sunlight for an instant as she drew. The Orcess’ nostrils flared and she turned her head slowly to take in the group’s surroundings with her good eye. Her longbow, cloak, and pack rested in a haphazard pile, discarded at arm’s length to minimize the risk of tripping; her whole, wiry frame was utterly still but radiated the tension of a dam about to burst.

Her nephew and Fuorn exchanged a brief, anxious glance.

Whatever had warranted the veteran’s attention hadn’t alarmed their canine companion. Which meant it wasn’t a beast; Tulkas would certainly have alerted at the smell of bear or wolf or wildcat. A person, then, or people. But what _sort?_ What would they want? Was it a chance encounter, or were they being ambushed? Fuorn didn’t know Gothmóri the way Daul did, but hardened warrior or not, she didn’t seem the type to preemptively draw on fellow traveler(s) sight unseen. Not without a reason to be suspicious. No, whatever the older Orcess had sensed clearly registered to her as a _threat._

Thoughts whirling, the human grimaced, fighting a rising sense of dread and déjà vu. Their own “weapons” consisted of a bow and a seax. The bow was a recurve and suitable for most game, but it was no man-killer, and it was still bundled across their back unstrung. The seax was hardly better suited to a real fight; it was a straight, one-edged knife, the blade only as long as Fuorn’s forearm, serrated from the guard to the midpoint and largely utilitarian.

But at least it was accessible. The _nakhzej_ exhaled slowly and reached for their belt, struggling against a tide of helplessness that echoed and grew and snarled in the pit of their stomach.

_“I am not a child anymore.”_

The words were soft enough to blend with the rustle of leaves, a futile reassurance meant only for themself.

_“I will not go back.”_

Their fingers closed on the butt of the seax. They’d only ever used it to butcher, to carve, to cook, to cut cords and leather and their own hair….but at least it felt familiar.

_“This will not end the same.”_

Panting, quietly.

Fuorn fought the fear, struggled to still the tremble in their fingers as they pulled the long knife from its scabbard. The world seemed to close in about them, reduced to the point of the blade and the rush of blood in their ears and the dust in their throat.

_“Everything is different now.”_

Like a prayer.

Then a scuff, a scrape behind them, and Fuorn nearly choked at the proximity of the noise, terror clawing its way up out of their guts to fill their throat and silence their whispered refusals.

What were words, anyway? No one had ever listened, there was nothing they could do…

Utterly adrift, disembodied, the human turned (still slowly, dreamlike _, don’t make yourself a target),_ ready to strike however they could---

But it was Daul.

It was just Daul, and he’d shifted slightly toward them on the balls of his feet. A pair of odd-looking daggers glinted in his fists, and his knuckles were white, and his delicate pointed ears were twitching…and he was looking at the human with deep, gentle concern etched on his olive-green features.

The instant stretched, and stretched.

_“Fuorn.”_

A whisper.

_“That’s my name now,”_ they agreed quietly. Stupidly.

_“Now? But—never mind. Fuorn. Are you…are you all right?”_

It was at that moment that Gothmóri moved, and just like that all attention snapped back to her. Even Tulkas was looking at the veteran Orcess as she straightened from her fighting stance, sighed, and rolled her shoulders back.

Looked back at both of them, lowered the point of her sword toward the earth.

Ran her free hand over her scalp….

…and began to laugh.

There was no mirth in it, but the release of tension rolled over Fuorn, who collapsed from their crouch, backside thumping into the dirt.

_“What’s…..”_ Daul, at a loss, glanced back and forth between his bitterly chuckling aunt and the human sprawled shaking and sweating on the ground beside him.

_“Oh, this—this is—what a_ fucking _delight—”_ Gothmóri shook her head angrily, sheathed her sword, and pinched the bridge of her nose.

_“I swear on the Ancestors’ arseholes, I did nothing to deserve this.”_

_“Auntie, what are you_ talking _about?!”_ A note of indignance crept into Daul’s voice as he scooted closer to the _nakhzej_ and slung an arm about their shoulders protectively. _“You have no right to make fun of Fuorn. You told me lots of people have these sorts of—issues—and that it’s never all right to make them feel lesser for it!”_

_“I---_ what?” It was Gothmóri’s turn to look taken aback.

Then Fuorn’s state—pale, trembling, and completely mortified—seemed to register with the soldier.

_“Oh. No. No, it’s not about that,”_ she softened and waved toward them, _“It’s….well, Daul, will you please make camp? Well away from the trail.”_

She sighed again, and scooped up her cloak.

_“We won’t go any further today. And make sure that Fuorn is warm enough. Give them water. Don’t chatter, and_ ask _before you touch them right now, all right?”_

The young Orc was still visibly befuddled, but given a set of instructions he was more than capable of executing, he perked up.

_“Yes,_ Înad.” Using the honorific for a respected superior, he let go of Fuorn apologetically and scrambled to his feet.

_“I’ll be back in an hour or less. There’s no danger.”_

As she turned off the path and slipped into the undergrowth, both her companions could hear Gothmóri grumbling.

_“No danger. Just bullshit. An obscene amount of bullshit."_


	8. Chapter 8

The great gates of Gundabad swung wide, and Azog squinted into the glare of sun on snow.

 _“So many….I wonder where they’ve come from?”_ Oghil’s question was soft, and nearly disappeared into the creak of timbers that rang through the Great Hall.

Azog glanced at the cluster of new arrivals making their way inside, and over at his mate’s brother, who leaned against the gallery’s waist-high balustrade beside him . He shrugged in agreement. This _was_ a large group.

The flow of Orcs to Gundabad had been slow in the early years; only the rashest and hardiest of Uruk had chased the slender thread of hope that there might be something better, something _more,_ out there for them. Eventually, that trickle grew to a great flood as word spread, and Orcs across Middle Earth grew bold and defected en masse from their ancestral servitude.

The lucky ones had fled quietly, abandoning the shadows of Mirkwood, the subterranean depths of the Misty Mountains, the ruins of Angmar, and the vast wastes of the Rhovanion, to arrive at the City of the Free Orcs hungry and sickly but whole. The unlucky had fought a desperate, running fight from the borders of Mordor and Khand, from the airless halls of Dol Guldur and Minas Morgul, from the distant reaches of Rhûn and Arnor, to be welcomed at last in Gundabad bloodied and grieving and sometimes still pursued.

The Guard of Gundabad had ended those pursuits, sometimes on the very doorstep of the mountain itself.

In recent years, the flood had slowed once again to a trickle, as the number of Orcs still held by the Dark Lord dwindled to a minute fraction of the population. And so, now, it was startling to see such a procession stagger across the threshold of the fortress city .

 _“Sixty-two,”_ Azog reported to the smaller Orc. _“And….a half,”_ he amended as the rag-wrapped bundle on one refugee’s back wriggled slightly.

Oghil shifted uncomfortably. _“Az—General, I—”_

_“Don’t “general” me, brother. What’s worrying you?”_

The dark, slender Orc grimaced sadly and was silent for a long moment, shading his eyes with a hand to watch the irregular line of asylum-seekers silhouetted against the sky outside.

 _“They don’t know it yet, but….we’re stretched so thin, right now. Look at that fellow,”_ he pointed, indicating one new arrival in particular with a brightly-lacquered claw. _“They’re in terrible shape.”_

Azog had to agree. The individual his chosen-brother had pointed out was painfully gaunt, leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch and visibly struggling to hide their exhaustion as they stepped into the shadow of Gundabad.

 _“And how can we welcome them all? So many new mouths to feed? This should be a joyful moment….”_ Oghil slapped at the crenel before him in frustration. _“Gothm_ _óri and Daul better be home soon with that friend of yours.”_

The great white Orc could empathize with his irritation. Rations had been equal (and equally tight) for all adults the last few months….and having two feet of height and a hundred fifty pounds over the average Uruk only meant Azog was even hungrier and more depleted than his smaller companions. He was running on less fuel per pound than the average citizen.

 No, the Free Orcs weren’t starving, or even skipping meals…but what they had just wasn’t quite enough, and as winter drew to a close the months of _not quite enough_ were starting to add up.

 _“They’ll be back.”_ He had no reason to worry that they wouldn’t be. Not yet. _“Still. Things will be lean for another month at least.”_ He hated saying it, wishing he could somehow manifest the kind of feast that would satisfy not only the bodies but the spirits of these brave new arrivals to the nation of the Free Orcs, who surely deserved such comfort.

That desire was only solidified when the newcomers had their chance to speak, before the hastily-convened meeting of Elders and the crowd of citizens that surrounded them at the head of the communal chamber.

It was the very individual Oghil had pointed out that spoke for the sixty-three that morning, as soon as the gates of Gundabad had closed once again.

Azog wasn’t the only Uruk that morning to bow his head in respect, when they ( _he,_ he called himself) made his way forward, into the space that was left open before the council at the fireplace.

Emaciated, leaning on a crutch and dragging one leg painfully behind him across the flagstone, the apparent leader of Gundabad’s most recent arrivals nonetheless cut quite a figure as he drew himself up before the council. Clad only in rags, face sunburned and peeling, the refugee Orc straightened to address the Elders before him and he burned, he _burned_ with a dignity that went recognized in the expectant hush of the Hall.

 _“Free Orcs.”_ He swallowed laboriously, and continued in a hoarse but resonant basso. _This stranger isn’t even full grown,_ Azog realized, noticing hands and feet and ears that still seemed too large for their  owner. Horror coiled in his gut.

_“My….my people. We are last of the survivors of Dol Goldur.”_

A whisper rippled across the vast room.

_“Four hundred of us fled the mines.”_

The whisper grew louder, and Azog saw the echo of those words in the press of fists to foreheads throughout the Great Hall. Free Uruk honoring this stranger’s pain in a gesture of shared grief.

 _“We are all that remains. Even though some of us could have found another home—”_ and Oghil started at the same moment that Azog realized the refugees _weren’t all Orcs---_

 _“We chose, together, to come here. We ask your welcome….and I_ myself _beg on behalf of the_ azhurêm _among us, that we all be counted among your number.”_

Azhurêm. The Free Races. Non-Orcs.

And certainly, here they were. Men, Women. Dwarves and dwarrows. Even halflings—Hobbits, they called themselves, he reminded himself—and one individual that might conceivably be Kvendigh, stood in ragged ranks behind the speaker, looking even more abashed than their downcast Uruk companions. It wasn’t unheard of, to see non-Orcs in the halls of Gundabad, but a score at once? And asking not just temporary hospitality, but to stay?

That was definitely new. And it definitely would not be easy.

There were some Uruk who felt it was _absolutely critical_ to be better, bigger people than their oppressors—to extend goodwill toward the _azhur_ _êm_ in spite of having received none. And there were just as many Uruk who felt it was only reasonable to treat the Free Races with the same scorn that had been heaped upon _them_ for millennia.

Most of the Free Orcs fell somewhere in between, Azog included.

This would be a test. Where would the bones fall?

 

 _“Take us all, or take us none.”_ The lame Orc abandoned his crutch to fall to his knees, deliberately offering the back of his neck. _“We have come so far….”_ Tears cut tracks through the filth on his face, now, and he showed no shame. _“Lost so many. Grant us welcome. We are all of us worthy of it.”_

Azog, listening with bated breath, felt the tightness in his throat abate when Duázhel, Foremost of the Elders, stepped forward from her companions after only a moment’s heated, whispered debate.

She didn’t speak immediately, but sank slowly to her arthritic knees to meet the asylees’ leader on his own level...and reached out to rest both knobbly hands on his shoulders.

 _“Years, it has been, since we welcomed threescore to this hall at once.”_ She looked past him, then, and searched the crowd of thin, worn figures that hovered together (as if for comfort) behind their speaker.

 _“And it can only be due to the determination of all those who stand here today….and the sacrifice of those who cannot.”_ She stood, and pulled the speaker to his feet, embracing him and offering back his discarded crutch.

 _“Welcome to Gundabad._ All _of you. What we have is yours, and what we stand to gain, you will also enjoy. In the sight of the Ancestors, we swear it.”_

The collective voice of Gundabad rumbled in the high cavern. Most of it, at least. Azog noticed plenty of less-than-pleased faces in the crowd; he couldn’t entirely fault them, but he hoped fervently (clenching his fist) that all would be well, at least for now.

_“So mote it be.”_

And with that, the speaker for the newcomers crumpled in relief, and those who had come alongside him also seemed to slump. Worn too thin for raucous celebration, they simply smiled quietly, or wept softly, or looked around the simply-but-comfortably appointed Great Hall with wide eyes.

 _“The last of Dol Guldur’s imprisoned…..”_ Oghil murmured, a hint of wonder in his voice. _“After all these years. All the bodies we threw at that cursed place, and they got out on their_ own _. How on Arda did they do it?”_

 _“Not easily.”_ Azog remembered full well the Free Orcs’ past attempt at liberating the fearsome fortress that was Dol Guldur, and gritted his teeth. A terrible sadness tempered his amazement at the fortitude of the ragtag rebels who were even now being shepherded off to the baths and the healers’ wards by Gundabad’s more outgoing souls.

His mate’s brother nudged him in the ribs. _“Do I smell guilt, brother?”_

 _“I….”_ the taller Orc grimaced and kicked at the polished-stone floor, still watching the crowd disperse slowly below. _“I wish we could have rescued them ourselves. Ancestors know we tried.”_

 _“If they don’t already know that, they will soon,_ _Ázi.”_ Oghil reached over to grasp his iron forearm, and tugged gently at it until Azog felt the pressure in his flesh and turned fully to meet his friend’s amber eyes.

_“This is no failure of yours; it’s a victory of theirs.”_

_“Still, I could have—”_

_“You could have tried harder?_ General,” and the fine-boned Orc’s voice was gently mocking, _“Were you not carried off that particular battlefield on a stretcher?”_

Azog shut his mouth abruptly.

_“And did your Guard not perform admirably to the last, that day?”_

_“I was, and they did,”_ he admitted unhappily. The ability to take him down a peg or two when he _needed_ it, when his own expectations of himself grew to be too much, must be heritable...  

 _“So, then. What is past is past. What will you do_ now _to help them, O Great One?”_

He knew. _“I’m going to go speak to the cooks. And Oghor. There will be a feast tonight if I have to go out and bring down the last elk in this valley myself.”_

Oghil snorted derisively, but his eyes crinkled at the corners as he swatted at the larger Orc. _“With what? That great dumbbell you call an axe? Good luck, friend.”_

 _“I’ll make it happen,”_ Azog asserted, and pulled his friend in for a brief, grateful hug.

 _“That’s the spirit,”_ and Oghil yanked him down to thump their foreheads together before turning, presumably to make for the healers’ wards himself.

Oghor’s brother had a deft hand at physical remedies, and an even more expansive capacity for emotional comfort.

As he’d just demonstrated. Azog thanked the Ancestors for his chosen family. The great white Orc might have been _baghronkai,_ an aberration even among Orcs, no parents, no siblings…but increasingly over the years he’d come to feel…supported here, friends and lovers and mentors filling a space within him that he’d scarcely acknowledged before arriving in the city of the Free Orcs.

He was fortunate, indeed. And he intended to share that fortune with the survivors of Dol Guldur tonight, and in the days to come.

 

 

 _“It won’t be one for the annals, but…there could hardly be a better occasion to pull together what we can.”_ Oghor scrubbed the sweat from her jaw with the corner of her collar, the heat of the enormous stone ovens thickening the air as she leaned casually against a countertop.

Twoscore others nodded in agreement—mostly cooks who’d already been at their posts when Azog careened into the kitchens, riding a wave of conviction, and announced that there simply _must_ be a feast tonight.

So he had been enthusiastic.

The rest of their co-conspirators  were citizens who’d been in the proximity, happened to scent secrecy, and wanted to pitch in with this not-entirely-sanctioned but well-intentioned effort.

 _“We’re strictly rationing the vegetables. And all the fruit left is dried. What we’ve got….”_ The most talkative of the kitchen staff, a young Orcess with swirling designs shaved into her scalp, gestured broadly with a wooden spoon and launched into an inventory of the mountain city’s stores.

It wasn’t much, but with some creativity and luck, they’d stretch tonight’s simple fare a bit further than usual. Hopefully enough that everyone, including Gundabad’s newest citizens, could eat until they were _full._

Azog began to salivate at the thought, and swallowed audibly. That made Oghor snort, and she stepped up to defer and direct and delegate with the sort of ease he could only envy.

 _“Cooks, bakers, bottlers….quartermaster,”_ she nodded to a rangy, heavily-tattooed Orc leaning on a bread-rack. _“Turn out the stores. Whatever we have, whatever we can spare.”_

He grinned. _“No stone unturned, Oghor.”_

 _“Sezhaal. Rek_ _ím. To the residential levels. Put the word out, quiet-like, see if anyone with private stores will cough up. And bring us the butchers!”_ she shouted after the raven-haired twins as they dashed for the staircase.

_“The rest of you. Gather what you need and meet me at the west gate in a half hour. Tonight we feast!”_

The little group broke up and scattered to their tasks, buoyed by gleeful secrecy.

 

The west gate cracked open onto blinding sunlight. Azog, Oghor, and a dozen others squinted and stamped, shrugging into overcoats and cloaks as they stepped out into the cold, clear mountain air.

Azog screwed a woolen cap down over his bald pate and inhaled deeply.

The taste of earth was in the air. Snowbanks crouched in shadow, melting into rivulets that joined and parted and joined again, trickling over stone and forming crystal-clear, frigid pools. The sound echoed off the face of the mountain, a soft cacophony of dripping and splashing that gently filled his senses. Nights were still cold, here on the northern fringes of the great Misty Mountain range, but sunny days were above freezing at last, if only just.

Which contributed to treacherous footing; ice and mud intermingled. Azog picked his way cautiously across tumbled rock, soggy hillocks of yellow grass, and spongey mounds of stubbornly green moss. Great cloven, pitted boulders dotted the high, spare reaches of Gundabad about him, while the landscape eventually fell away below into forested foothills and then into a broad, grassy plain. Across it, the Anduin River meandered wildly, a slender white echo of its downstream breadth.

 _“We’ll circle downhill toward the south, I think,”_ Azog told his mate, feeling the sunlight strike his pallid skin, a gentle palpable force.

She nodded, bracing one end of her longbow against the ground and stepping through its curve,  using her body weight to force the other end down far enough to string it. _“We’ll set around to the north. Last night’s watch found caribou sign that way. Meet back here a hand before sundown?”_

He nodded, faintly admiring, and she smiled back, holding the yew stave carefully out of the way, leaning in for a quick one-armed hug. Azog felt her teeth close on the muscle of his chest, blunted by layers of linen, wool, and leather, and struggled to maintain a straight face at the surreptitious love bite.

 _“Good luck,”_ she wished him and the rest of his party without a hint of embarrassment.

 _“Good hunting,”_ he replied, somewhat less evenly, and Oghor’s dark eyes glittered with amusement and affection; then she was off.

The hunting party set out smoothly, falling in single file, strung out against the skyline as they receded. In the lead was Enádn, arguably the most skilled tracker in Gundabad. Then Oghor. Behind her, another archer named Kujeri (a giant of an Orc themself, only a handspan shorter than Azog), and then a stocky young Orcess named Pyrrhol, whose accuracy with a simple sling was near-legendary among the ranks of the Guard.

Good people, they were. Skilled, and happy to help. Azog wished them luck again, silently this time.


	9. Chapter 9

Oghil’s joke about his “dumbbell of an axe” notwithstanding, Azog’s prosthetic hand made hunting difficult; holding a bow was effectively impossible, and approaching large game closely enough to take them down without a ranged weapon was a chancy, time-consuming proposition.

He’d done it before, of course, and would again if needs must, but the great white Orc fancied himself humble enough these days to know when he was not the best candidate for a job. So he’d opted to join the foraging party instead, and deferred its leadership easily to the tiny individual perched on a sun-drenched boulder beside him.

Zhahiid was the opposite of her mate, Gothmóri, in almost every way: short and pale-skinned, with a wide, easy smile and a wild tumble of silver curls.  The older Orcess’ flesh was almost entirely devoid of decoration or modification, save for the simple greenstone pendants that hung from her earlobes and drew out matching tones in her eyes.  Hers was a rounded, vaguely pear-shaped figure, clad in a sensibly warm woolen overrobe the color of rich soil.  Wrinkles lined her eyes and mouth, but her movements were light and springy as she slid to the ground brandishing a canvas sack.

A woodswoman without equal, Zhahiid.

_“Eyes and noses sharp! Let us see what we may find for the table, friends. Follow!”_

With that, she set off across the slope to a chorus of agreement. Azog fell in behind her and his other compatriots, trusting she would know where to look.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

She did indeed know where to look. Zhahiid led them across the brightest, sunniest slopes, beside thermal streams that glittered and steamed, and along the damp edges of wooded valleys. Eyes that hunted for splashes of green, and hands that grubbed through earth and patches of dirty snow were rewarded; as their bags and baskets grew heavier, Azog marveled quietly at the miracle of spring.

He (and most of his companions, apparently) hadn’t truly expected to have much luck today, so early in the season, but in the microclimates provided by the land itself, in niches and nooks and unexpected shadows, life was already bursting forth. Zhahiid chuckled at his wonder, naming roots and shoots and delicate green leaves to him as they were discovered and carefully gathered.

_“See? There is life and plenty, even here, even now, if we look carefully.”_

He smiled back as the little party reformed and made its way slowly back to the western gate, bearing pungent leafy greens and dripping bundles of watercress, sacks of bulbs and gnarled tubers, and even a few gigantic chunks of hard, nutty-smelling fungus chipped from the base of a crooked, ancient birch. It might have been the prospect of a full belly, or just an afternoon’s earnest work in the crisp air, but as the shadows began to lengthen on the mountainside, Azog felt light and truly cheerful for the first time in months. They were going to manage this.

Gundabad’s newest citizens would receive a worthy welcome.

This would be a night worth remembering.

Oghor, Enádn, and Kujeri were already waiting at the entrance to the city, and clearly fortune had smiled upon everyone today—two elk lay, already field-dressed, on the grass.  Pyrrhol sat cross-legged some distance away, cleaning an _impressive_ brace of fowl methodically and tossing the entrails to a flock of ravens that shuffled and squabbled uproariously at her feet.

She was the first to notice as the foragers crested a rise and came into view of the gate, and raised a blocky, scaly hand in greeting.

_“Welcome back, all! How did you fare?”_

Zhahiid’s eyes crinkled. _“Splendidly! Just as you all did, it seems. Well done.”_

A few of the younger gatherers darted past her to show off their spoils, which earned tired smiles and genuine praise from Oghor and Kujeri. Even Enádn, an Orc notable for his reserve (and general avoidance of children), bent down to thank the eager youths for their hard work.

Only Azog spotted him pilfering a fiddlehead from one child’s pack as they bounced past him. The whipcord-lean tracker noticed him noticing, and grinned back shyly before popping the verdant sprout into his mouth and chewing.

_“By the Ancestors that fucked to make us,”_ he mumbled to Azog, mouth full, eyes closing in pleasure. _“Fresh food. Neither dried, nor pickled, nor stewed….just…ughhhh.”_ His groan was nearly sexual.

The bigger Orc couldn’t help the laughter that boiled up from his belly and filled the air. Oghor, Zhahiid, and the other adults within earshot soon burst out likewise.  

Enádn looked embarrassed for all of a moment or two, and then joined in wholeheartedly, thin lips curling up to reveal green-stained fangs.

The sound mixed pleasantly with the hoarse chortles of the ravens, spreading out against the flawless pale blue sky above.

_“You earned your share,_ Înad,” Kujeri giggled.

_“We all did.”_ Oghor clapped a hand to the small of her back in an exaggerated acknowledgement of the (doubtless real) soreness there.

Dragging a six-hundred-pound elk over a mile of rough terrain—twice—was a task even Azog wouldn’t relish, and he made a similarly exaggerated bow toward the quartet of hunters. _“This was all my idea, friends. Can your muscles ever forgive me?”_

Kujeri raised their hands and flexed the fingers once, twice, displaying imprints on their palms from the ropes used to pull the massive animals’ bodies.

_“I tell you what, General. If this plan of yours has convinced the brewmaster to tap a barrel of that sack-mead he’s got squirreled away, my muscles will not only forgive you; they will sing your praises.”_

_“We have a deal, Kujeri.”_ Still laughing, the scarred Orc turned, gripped the handle of the heavy timber West Gate, and pushed firmly. Time to bring the goods to the kitchen…and bring this plan to fruition.

 

_“This was a good idea,_ _Ázi,”_ Oghor told him, dark eyes bright with the flicker of torches.

He slouched forward to rest his elbows on the long trestle table between them. _“The newcomers deserve the welcome. And the rest of us….the rest of us deserve some enjoyment, too.”_ His tongue was pleasantly loose; the sack-mead had indeed made an appearance, in honor of tonight’s scraped-together feast, and it sat warm atop the glorious fullness of Azog’s belly. _“Point to the Free Orcs of Gundabad. This round goes to us.”_ He mimed ringing a bell, the way a judge would to signal victory in an exhibition match.

She pushed her empty plate aside, and smiled broadly, roguishly. _“I never tire of winning.”_

Azog grinned back and gestured rudely in a general south-westerly direction.

_“Hear, hear!”_ That was Kujeri, strolling up to clap one hand on Azog’s shoulder while mirroring his offensive salute to Mordor with the other.

_“I take it I’m fully forgiven, then,_ nakhzjez?” Azog asked, twisting to look up at them.  

_“Plus interest. I am yours to command, O General,”_ the tall young Orc quipped, loose-limbed and flushed, and raised their mug. _“To the Ancestors, who have blessed us with this moment of joy!”_

Oghor’s nose crinkled, grinning from ear to ear now. _“And to Azog’s broad shoulders, eh, friend?”_

Kujeri choked and snorted, swallowed, and wiped their mouth with a muscular forearm, eyes dancing. _“That too.”_

Azog felt the tips of his ragged ears darken. The younger Orc’s aesthetic crush on him was sweet, touching, and a little overwhelming…which Oghor found utterly amusing.

She toasted her fellow archer before nudging her mate’s ankle beneath the table. _“Must be hard, being beautiful, eh?”_ she teased.

There it was again.

Azog was much more used to it these days, being complimented. Not just for the things he _did—_ on the battlefield, in the Council chambers, in the training halls—but for the things he _was;_ for his personality or his convictions or even the body he lived in. He heard it from Oghor, he heard it from his friends and his trainees and his elders, he heard it from Gothmóri, and _oh yes_ he heard it from Kujeri, but still….

Still, it always startled him just a bit. And reminded him of the first time he’d heard such a thing.

Fuorn had called him beautiful, all those years ago at their cabin, in a quiet moment in a quiet valley and in a quiet voice that had shaken and stripped and revolutionized him.

Fuorn, who would be _here,_ Ancestors willing, in the coming weeks.

At that, he smiled himself, and gave his mate’s hand a squeeze, while reaching to hook the iron fingers of his other arm in Kujeri’s bodkin.

_“You flatter me,_ _Înir. Thank you for your appreciation.”_

The younger Orc accepted the term for a respected youngster with a shrug and an easy smile, disentangling Azog’s prosthetic hand from their leathers to clasp it with a warmth he couldn’t feel, but could still _feel._  

_“Any time and always, Azog. This was a most rewarding escapade. Speaking of which….”_ They nodded amicably to another Orc, who approached the table with a distinctively uneven gait.

Kujeri rubbed a calloused, affectionate hand over Azog’s skull, smiled once more at Oghor, and wandered off, ceding space to the newcomer.

It was the speaker for Dol Guldur’s survivors, who paused at a courteous distance, eyes cast downward and shoulders curled in. The greeting of a stranger in a strange place, waiting for acknowledgement.

A curious blend of emotions curled in the general’s chest, and he scooted sideways obligingly. The refugee slipped into the space on the bench with a nod of thanks and deposited his own wooden cup on the table. _Bulmos akrum_ , rather than the high-proof Azog and his friends had been drinking.

_“Rumor has it, I am now in the presence of the instigators of tonight’s feast.”_ The stranger’s impossibly deep, hoarse voice was soft this time. His accent was faint and unfamiliar, and he left both hands (plainly empty) on the pinewood tabletop, signaling peaceful intent in a way most Free Orcs no longer bothered to, among themselves.

_“The instigators, perhaps, but we hardly could have done it without a great deal of help,”_ Oghor clarified, squeezing Azog’s hand.

Azog caught the slight hitch in her voice. His mate struggled to disguise her feelings at the best of times, and he could hardly blame her for the way her eyes widened when she regarded the Orc beside him.

_“I am aware I’m hardly pleasant to the eyes. You need not hide your stare.”_ There was neither self-deprecation nor chastisement in his voice as the haggard stranger looked right back at Oghor.

He’d clearly bathed since his arrival, and his ragged scraps of clothing had been replaced, but the newcomer was in poor shape. His fangs were yellow and black, tusklike canines broken off in a way that looked deliberate, and deep purple bruises surrounded both eyes. The hollows in his cheeks swallowed the torchlight, and the borrowed tunic and breeches he wore hung from his emaciated frame like a collapsed tent. His lips were cracked and furrowed, his nails broken and peeling, and Azog noted the goosebumps that rippled over his messily-scarred forearms.

It was warm in the hall, almost too much so, but all the blood in this Orc’s bony body must be in his stomach right now, struggling to absorb its contents.

Oghor squinted at him for a long moment, and finally replied.

_“On the contrary. I stare because you are ill and hungry and beaten and, at the moment, absolutely radiant.”_

He gaped at her, and Azog fought back a chuckle. _“She says what she means, and only that, friend. You best get used to it.”_

The asylee glanced back and forth between him and his mate, and finally he closed his mouth, those painful-looking lips curling up into a smile that did more than torchlight to brighten his eyes.

_“I cannot say I mind. I am Udrizajh, chosen leader of the slaves of Dol Guldur…._ former _slaves of Dol Guldur. And it is my understanding that it was no small feat to produce such a celebration for our arrival here.”_

Azog wanted to deny that much, but he knew better than to lie. However recent, this Orc was a citizen of Gundabad now, and he would know soon enough (if he didn’t already) what state the mountain city was in after the Fell Winter.

_“The year has been unkind to us, but your arrival could not go unmarked. Welcome to the city of the Free Orcs, friend.”_

Udrizajh tapped his knuckles against his sternum in acknowledgement and sipped lightly from his mug. _“On behalf of myself and_ all _my people I thank you.”_

_“We were more than pleased to make the effort. May I ask….”_ Oghor looked up at him gently, hesitantly this time. _“…how long did you live under Dol Guldur?”_

The battered survivor’s face darkened, but his voice was steady when he answered her. _“I was born in the pits. Near as I can reckon, I am thirty-two. Or four, or six….”_

Oghor was still holding Azog’s hand with her right, but she reached out on the tabletop for Udrizajh’s hand with her left, and he obliged, bony fingers curling across her palm.

Thirty-two. Still young, so young. Orcs were generally considered to have reached their majority at twenty-five, to be capable of making their own decisions at that age… but in truth, most had hardly settled into their bodies or their roles at _thirty_ -five. Azog himself hadn’t reached his full height until nearly forty.

Oghor hesitated for only a split-second before diving right in.

_“Udrizajh, did you ever know a human slave called Fuorn? Fuorn Blackwater?”_

He started, stared back at Oghor.

Worked his jaw, and in a slow, wondering tone, he answered. _“Aye, I did. They escaped—somehow, I still don’t—how—how do you---why? Why do you ask?”_

It was Azog’s turn to lean in, and he couldn’t help but smile at the notion of giving this battered, mighty survivor some _more_ good news on what must already be a very good night for him.

_“Because they’re alive and well, I’m happy to say.”_

The skeletal asylee only goggled for a second, before chuckling heartily and drumming on the tabletop in amusement.

_“They made it? How? That’s twenty winters gone, or more! And we…well, we all hoped, but it was madness, we none of us knew for sure if they’d actually succeeded, or if the slavedrivers just punished us for kicks, or….”_

_“They made it out. Wandered the land for a while, settled in the Anduin Valley, took up a little homestead. And saved my life there eleven winters ago, actually, after I lost this.”_ The great white Orc waved his abbreviated left arm.   _“Which is why I know.”_

Udrizajh’s laugher only intensified, soft but low, a thunder that was slowly drawing attention across the packed chamber. Joy reshaped his face in a way that Azog _noticed,_ showing a hint of the beauty this starved, savaged, perseverant Orc might have been, had he been born free. The handsome creature he could still be, now that he was _here._

There it was, another twinge of terrible sadness, but he shoved it down, opting instead for another slug of sack-mead.

He watched the festivities carry on around him, listened to the din of conversation and cutlery echo from the vaulted ceiling of the chamber. Scraps of music and snatches of applause carried from a low dais beside the fire, where an impromptu gathering of musicians bantered and careened through popular tunes.

Oghor and her other lover, Amaadh, were now tag-teaming Udrazijh with a series of anecdotes about their own first days in Gundabad, and all three were chortling nigh-hysterically _._ On Azog’s right, Enádn was still popping fiddleheads (cooked, now) almost absentmindedly into his mouth, deep in conversation with another member of the Watch

On his left, an Orc he didn’t know was challenging all comers to arm-wrestle (winning and losing with equal enjoyment, it seemed). Further down the table, and across the hall, he could see the other Orcs from Dol Guldur looking overjoyed, overwhelmed, and overcome in turns, surrounded by citizens with questions and well-wishes and offers of sponsorship. He was pleased to see that even the scattering of newcomer humans and halflings _(Hobbits!)_ looked reasonably comfortable and appeared engaged in conversation with those around them.

The four Dwarves who’d arrived with the refugee party were grouped together on cushions before the hearth, apparently attempting to explain the rules of a Dwarven dice game to a group of Free Orcs that included Pyrrhol. All involved were presumably muddling along in Westron (a second language all shared, but with varying degrees of fluency), and the dialogue was accompanied by a great deal of arm flapping and ale-swigging.

They appeared to be wagering with polished pebbles, which made Azog wonder…and ah, yes. _There_ was Bolg , clearly afire with curiosity, chattering a mile a minute and happily ensconced in the lap of the largest, hairiest Dwarf, whose beard he had apparently commandeered as a scarf.

He even spotted Kujeri in an alcove beside the kitchen, deep in conversation with the lone Elven arrival. He/she/they seemed a bit nervous, violet eyes keeping a close watch on passersby, but seemed willing enough to engage with the _nakhzej’s_ friendly overtures.

Azog had had few dealings with the Kvendigh; they were notably aloof in general, and hated the Uruk in particular. It was an ancestral grudge that dwarfed the slowly-mellowing scorn of the other Free Races entirely.

This one still looked every inch the golden child of the Maiar, of course, resplendent despite crudely chopped hair, sunburned cheeks, and  ill-fitting robes.

Elves. He fought the urge to roll his eyes.

So pretty, and so _irritating._

Still, grudgingly, he supposed he owed this particular individual a chance; they’d _chosen_ to come to Gundabad. Azog tried to imagine their positions reversed, tried to think of a situation in which he himself would voluntarily settle in a city of Elves…and came up utterly short. Hmm.

There must be a hell of a story there. Perhaps he’d hear it, one day.


	10. Chapter 10

_“So what happened back there?”_

Fuorn just grunted in response, feeding another handful of twigs to the slowly growing fire, one by one.

To his credit, Daul hadn’t hovered or chattered or patronized after Gothmóri set off into the bush to do….whatever it was she had to do. He’d just gathered his pack, and theirs, and gone in search of a suitably flat spot to camp.

The human had followed him mutely, knees still shaky, to a small clearing several hundred paces from the trail, and Tulkas had followed _them_ closely, whuffing worriedly on occasion. Thoughtfully, the young Orc left a subtle trail of snapped twigs behind for his aunt. He assigned Fuorn to building the cook-fire, a task that was just easy and familiar and repetitive _enough_ to draw them out of their fugue a bit.

_“I mean, you don’t need to explain yourself, if you don’t want to. But if there’s anything I can—”_

_“Daul.”_

He patted out the last lump in his bedroll and settled cross-legged beside them. Not too close, but close enough to register as a comforting warmth beside them in the quickly-cooling evening air. _“What, Fuorn?”_

_“Have you ever killed someone?”_

The green-skinned youth didn’t flinch, but he did take some time to poke at the fire himself before answering.

_“Yes.”_

_“I…..”_ the _nakhzej_ realized, belatedly, what an inappropriate question that probably was, and wondered at their own mental state. _“I’m sorry. It was rude of me to ask.”_

Daul just sighed, set a pot of water on to boil, and settled back at their side. He pulled out one of those odd-looking daggers again and twirled it idly between his fingers, raising his face to the golden light that slanted through the trees.

_“No, it’s fine….three. I have killed three times. Two Orcs in one fight; they didn’t like the things Auntie was saying to their friends, about being free and living without masters…..”_ his expression was grim. _“And one Man. He was trying to kill_ me, _in Laketown. I didn’t actually want to kill him too, I just wanted him to_ stop, _but— I guess---”_ His fingers curled over his mouth, as if he were fighting the same nausea Fuorn had felt an hour ago.

A deep breath. _“I guess if it had to be him or me, I’m glad it wasn’t me.”_

Silence stretched in the growing dark, and the fire popped and hissed.

_“Shit.”_ Fuorn clasped his shoulder carefully, and Daul briefly pressed his cheek against their hand.

_“Yes. Shit. Why do you ask?”_

_“Because….”_ The human struggled to answer his question with the same sincerity. _“Because I never have. Killed someone. I’ve imagined it….mostly when I was in Dol Guldur….and I’ve been in a few fights, yes, but they were_ bar brawls, _Daul. Fistfights with Men who were usually far, far drunker than I.”_

He nodded, and flipped the dagger point-first into the dirt before reaching cautiously for their hand. _“Not exactly the same thing.”_

_“No, and I….I just felt so helpless back there.”_ The admission came in a rush, and they clasped his slender fingers like a lifeline. _“I’ve never_ really _fought. I’m not a warrior, not a soldier, not….I’m a fucking peasant, Daul. A farmer, who hunts wild game for meat because I can’t even butcher my own animals. Not when I watched them grow and_ named _them and all…._

_“And it made me remember all over again. How helpless and useless I was when the slavers came for me, how I couldn’t do anything but_ run _from Dol Guldur when I had the chance, and I should have done more—should have helped the others, should have tried harder to free them too, I should have—”_

_“Stop.”_ It was a command; something utterly odd coming from Daul’s mouth. He pulled the pot off the fire and turned to them, delicate brow furrowed. _“Just stop. Don’t you dare ‘should’ yourself. Ancestors, you were a_ child.”

 Fuorn wasn’t sure where the rage came from, then, but it seethed and boiled over almost instantaneously. “You _are a fucking child! Don’t tell me how I should feel—”_

The young Orc’s mane bristled and then slowly flattened, and he set the steaming pot down with a clang. For a few moments, there was silence, as he and Fuorn both registered the sudden anger, felt it and released it. _  
_

He extracted a clay vessel from his pack, the one Fuorn knew contained the a _krumlob,_ and shot them another look. _“I apologize. I should not tell you what to feel; I am here to share your burden….but I_ won’t _watch you add to it with guilt and shame.”_

The human wanted to argue again, nerves singing, but thought better of it. In that moment, Daul didn’t look so young or carefree at all. There was weight to his words, weight in his movement, weight on his shoulders, and they genuinely regretted speaking so sharply.

So instead, they exhaled deeply and hugged their knees to their chest, still wondering at their own emotional state while he withdrew the a _krumlob, t_ he mother culture, gently from its container and began the ritual of grinding spices and sugar to accompany it.

It took several minutes to reduce the mixture to a fine powder. Fuorn watched smoke spiral into the twilight sky and wiggled their toes inside their boots, still ruminating.

_“Fuorn. If you do need to say more, I will listen.”_ Daul stirred the powder into the slowly-cooling water, and added the _akrumlob. “Didn’t mean to cut you off entirely.”_

_“No, I think…I think I said what I needed to, and what you said helped, too.”_

_“Then, can I make a suggestion?”_

The _nakhzej_ glanced at him sideways. _“Go ahead.”_

_“You could learn to fight.”_

They blinked and turned to look at him skeptically, but he held up a hand to forestall argument.

_“No, really. There’s no shame in disliking violence, and you don’t have to be a warrior, or anything—hopefully you’d never even have to use it, but—you could learn.”_ He scratched at the back of his neck. _“Maybe it would help you feel less fear in situations like we had back there. Auntie could teach you, or there are others in Gundabad who would. You could train with my sister! Or Pyrrhol. Or even with the General, I know he likes you—”_

That was more like Daul, a flood of words and excitement, and the normalcy of it was grounding to a still-slightly-floaty Fuorn. Moreover, they couldn’t discount his logic; maybe just knowing they _could_ defend themself, if they had to, would allow them to stay calm in threatening situations.

If they could stay calm, they could fight—or they could bluff, or buy time, or even just flee. Any of those were better options than freezing in the grip of panic.

Anything to avoid feeling _that_ again.

_“I’ll give it a try.”_ That stopped the redheaded Orc mid-diatribe, and he grinned crookedly, visibly reeling in his train of thought.

_“Great. We can—oh.”_ His head lifted in unison with Tulkas’, both focusing in the same direction., Fuorn strained to sense whatever had alerted them.

There it was, the faint crackle of leaf-loam underfoot.

_“Company is such a delight.”_ And then Gothmóri herself became visible, just a shadow breaking from the treeline, and she _definitely_ didn’t sound like she meant that.

Daul and Fuorn glanced at each other.

As she approached the fire, the veteran came into clearer relief, and so did her companion—who flopped limply, slung over her shoulders like a lamb. A sheet of dark brown hair hung almost to the ground, and skin like starlight flickered in the dark. Long slender limbs dangled in the warrior’s grip.

_“Is that an_  Elf?"

_"Unfortunately."_


	11. Chapter 11

_“So what happened back there?”_

Fuorn just grunted in response, feeding another handful of twigs to the slowly growing fire, one by one.

To his credit, Daul hadn’t hovered or chattered or patronized after Gothmóri set off into the bush to do….whatever it was she had to do. He’d just gathered his pack, and theirs, and gone in search of a suitably flat spot to camp.

The human had followed him mutely, knees still shaky, to a small clearing several hundred paces from the trail, Tulkas whuffing worriedly on occasion at their heels. Thoughtfully, the young Orc left a subtle trail of snapped twigs behind for his aunt. He assigned Fuorn to building the cook-fire, a task that was just easy and familiar and repetitive enough to draw them out of their fugue a bit.

_“I mean, you don’t need to explain yourself, if you don’t want to. But if there’s anything I can—”_

_“Daul.”_

He patted out the last lump in his bedroll and settled cross-legged beside them. Not too close, but close enough to register as a comforting warmth beside them in the quickly-cooling evening air. _“What, Fuorn?”_

_“Have you ever killed someone?”_

The green-skinned youth didn’t flinch, but he did take some time to poke at the fire himself before answering. _“Yes.”_

_“I…..”_ the nakhzej realized, belatedly, what an inappropriate question that probably was, and wondered at their own mental state. _“I’m sorry. It was rude of me to ask.”_

Daul just sighed, set a pot of water on to boil, and settled back at their side. He pulled out one of those odd-looking daggers again and twirled it idly between his fingers, raising his face to the golden light that slanted through the trees.

_“No, it’s fine….three. I have killed three times. Two Orcs in one fight; they didn’t like the things Auntie was saying to their friends, about being free and living without masters…..”_ his expression was grim. _“And one Man. He was trying to kill_ me _, in Laketown. I didn’t actually want to kill him too, I just wanted him to stop, but— I guess---”_ His fingers curled over his mouth, as if he were fighting the same nausea Fuorn had felt an hour ago. A deep breath. _“I guess if it had to be him or me, I’m glad it wasn’t me.”_

Silence stretched in the growing dark, and the fire popped and hissed.

_“Shit.”_ Fuorn clasped his shoulder carefully, and Daul briefly pressed his cheek against their hand.

_“Yes. Shit. Why do you ask?”_

_“Because….”_ The human struggled to answer his question with the same sincerity. “ _Because I never have. Killed someone. I’ve imagined it….mostly when I was in Dol Guldur….and I’ve been in a few fights, yes, but they were bar brawls, Daul. Fistfights with Men who were usually far, far drunker than I.”_

He nodded, and flipped the dagger point-first into the dirt before reaching cautiously for their hand. _“Not exactly the same thing.”_

_“No, and I….I just felt so helpless back there.”_ The admission came in a rush, and they clasped his slender fingers like a lifeline. _“I’ve never really fought. I’m not a warrior, not a soldier, not….I’m a fucking peasant, Daul. A farmer, who hunts wild game for meat because I can’t even butcher my own animals. Not when I watched them grow and named them and all…._

_“And it made me remember all over again. How helpless and useless I was when the slavers came for me, how I couldn’t do anything but run from Dol Guldur when I had the chance, and I should have done more—should have helped the others, should have tried harder to free them too, I should have—”_

_“Stop.”_ It was a command; something utterly odd coming from Daul’s mouth. He pulled the pot off the fire and turned to them, delicate brow furrowed. _“Just stop. Don’t you dare ‘should’ yourself. Ancestors, you were a_ child _.”_

Fuorn wasn’t sure where the rage came from, then, but it seethed and boiled over almost instantaneously. “ _You_ are _a fucking child! Don’t tell me how I should feel—”_

The young Orc’s mane bristled and then slowly flattened, and he set the steaming pot down with a clang. For a few moments, there was silence, as he reacted to that rage, absorbed it and released it and _breathed_.

He extracted a clay vessel from his pack, the one Fuorn knew contained the _akrumlob_ , and shot them another look. _“I apologize. I should not tell you what to feel; I am here to share your burden….but I won’t watch you add to it with guilt and shame.”_

The human wanted to argue again, nerves singing, but thought better of it. In that moment, Daul didn’t look so young or carefree at all. There was weight to his words, weight in his movement, weight on his shoulders, and they genuinely regretted speaking so sharply. So instead, they exhaled deeply and hugged their knees to their chest, still wondering at their own emotional state while he withdrew the _akrumlob_ , the mother culture, gently from its container and began the ritual of grinding spices and sugar to accompany it.

It took several minutes to reduce the mixture to a fine powder. Fuorn watched smoke spiral into the twilight sky and wiggled their toes inside their boots, still ruminating.

_“Fuorn. If you do need to say more, I will listen.”_ Daul stirred the powder into the slowly-cooling water, and added the _akrumlob_. _“Didn’t mean to cut you off entirely.”_

_“No, I think…I think I said what I needed to, and what you said helped, too.”_

_“Then, can I make a suggestion?”_

The nakhzej glanced at him sideways. _“Go ahead.”_

_“You could learn to fight.”_

They blinked and turned to look at him skeptically, but he held up a hand to forestall argument. “ _No, really. There’s no shame in disliking violence, and you don’t have to be a warrior, or anything—hopefully you’d never even have to use it, but—you could learn.”_ He scratched at the back of his neck. _“Maybe it would help you feel less fear in situations like we had back there. Auntie could teach you, or there are others in Gundabad who would. You could train with my sister! Or Pyrrhol. Or even with the General, I know he likes you—”_

That was more like Daul, a flood of words and excitement, and the normalcy of it was grounding to a still-slightly-floaty Fuorn. Moreover, they couldn’t discount his logic; maybe just knowing they could defend themself, if they had to, would allow them to stay calm in threatening situations.

If they could stay calm, they could fight—or they could bluff, or buy time, or even just flee. Any of those were better options than freezing in the grip of panic.

Anything to avoid feeling _that_ again.

_“I’ll give it a try.”_

That stopped the redheaded Orc mid-diatribe, and he grinned crookedly, visibly reeling in his train of thought. _“Great. We can—oh.”_

His head lifted in unison with Tulkas’, both focusing in the same direction.

Fuorn strained to sense whatever had alerted them. There it was, the faint crackle of leaf-loam underfoot.

_“Company is such a delight,”_ came the familiar, gravelly baritone. And then Gothmóri herself became visible, just a shadow breaking from the treeline, and she definitely didn’t sound like she meant it sincerely.

Daul and Fuorn glanced at each other.

As she approached the fire, the veteran came into clearer relief, and so did her "company", slung over her shoulders like a lamb and flopping limply with each step. A sheet of dark brown hair hung almost to the ground, and skin like starlight flickered in the dark. Long slender limbs dangled in the warrior’s grip.

_“Is that an_  Elf?"

_"Unfortunately."  
_


End file.
